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THE  CREATORS 


'  To  the  book 


"  she  said.     "  To  Xina  Lempricrc's  book  !  Vou 
can  drink  now,  George  " 


THE  CREATORS 

A  COMEDY 


BY 


MAY  SINCLAIR 

author  of 
'the  divine  fire,"   "the  helpmate/'  etc. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 


NEW  YORK 
THE   CENTURY   CO. 

1910 


Copyright,  1909,  1910,  by 
The  Century  Co, 


Published,  October,  1910 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

'  To  the  book !  "  she  said.     "  To  Nina  Lempriere's  book !     You  can 
drink  now,  George  " Frontispiece 

"  How  any  one  can  be  unkind  to  dumb  animals,"  said  Rose,  musing     25 

"Why  do  you  talk  about  my  heart?" 71 

Jane  started  at  this  sudden  voice  of  her  own  thought      ....    107 

"  And  he,"  she  said,  "  has  still  a  chance  if  I  fail  you?  "     .      .      .      .    147 

She  had  wrung  it  from  him,  the  thing  that  six  days  ago  he  had 

come  to  her  to   say 241 

It  was  Jinny  who  lay  there,  Jinny,  his  wife 349 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "try  not  to  hate  me!  " 385 

"  George,"  she  said,     ..."  I  love  you  for  defending  him  "      .   433 

She  closed  her  eyes,  "  I'm  quite  happy  " 483 

Jane  stood  in  the  doorway,  quietly  regarding  them     .....  495 


THE     CEEATOES 


THE    CREATORS 


THREE  times  during  dinner  he  had  asked  himself  what, 
after  all,  was  he  there  for?  And  at  the  end  of  it,  as  she 
rose,  her  eyes  held  him  for  the  first  time  that  evening,  as  if 
they  said  that  he  would  see. 

She  had  put  him  as  far  from  her  as  possible,  at  the  foot  of 
her  table  between  two  of  the  four  preposterous  celebrities  whom 
she  had  asked  him,  George  Tanqueray,  to  meet. 

Everything,  except  her  eyes,  had  changed  since  he  had  last 
dined  with  Jane  Holland,  in  the  days  when  she  was,  if  anything, 
more  obscure  than  he.  It  was  no  longer  she  who  presided  at 
the  feast,  but  her  portrait  by  Gisborne,  R.A.  He  had  given 
most  of  his  attention  to  the  portrait. 

Gisborne,  R.A.,  was  a  solemn  egoist,  and  his  picture  repre- 
sented, not  Jane  Holland,  but  Gisborne's  limited  idea  of  her. 
It  was  a  sombre  face,  broadened  and  foreshortened  by  the  heavy, 
leaning  brows.  A  face  with  a  straight-drawn  mouth  and  eyes 
prophetic  of  tragedy,  a  face  in  which  her  genius  brooded,  down- 
cast, flameless,  and  dumb.  He  had  got  all  her  features,  her  long 
black  eyebrows,  her  large,  deep-set  eyes,  flattened  queerly  by  the 
level  eyebrows,  her  nose,  a  trifle  too  long  in  the  bridge,  too 
wide  in  the  nostril,  and  her  mouth  which  could  look  straight 
enough  when  her  will  was  dominant.  He  had  got  her  hair,  the 
darkness  and  the  mass  of  it.  Tanqueray,  in  his  abominable  way, 
had  said  that  Gisborne  had  put  his  best  work  into  that,  and 
when  Gisborne  resented  it  he  had  told  him  that  it  was  immor- 
tality enough  for  any  one  to  have  painted  Jane  Holland's  hair. 
(This  was  in  the  days  when  Gisborne  was  celebrated  and  Tan- 
queray was  not.) 

3 


4  THE     CEEATOES 

If  Jane  had  had  the  face  that  Gisborne  gave  her  she  would 
never  have  had  any  charm  for  Tanqueray.  For  what  Gisborne 
had  tried  to  get  was  that  oppressive  effect  of  genius,  heavily 
looming.  ISTot  a  hint  had  he  caught  of  her  high  levity,  of  her 
look  when  the  bright  devil  of  comedy  possessed  her,  not  a  flash 
of  her  fiery  quality,  of  her  eyes'  sudden  gold,  and  the  ways  of 
her  delicate,  her  brilliant  mouth,  its  fine,  deliberate  sweep,  its 
darting  tilt,  like  wings  lifted  for  flight. 

When  Tanqueray  wanted  to  annoy  Jane  he  told  her  that  she 
looked  like  her  portrait  by  Gisborne,  E.A. 

They  were  all  going  to  the  play  together.  But  at  the  last 
moment,  she,  to  Tanqueray's  amazement,  threw  them  over.  She 
was  too  tired,  she  said,  to  go. 

The  celebrities  pressed  round  her,  voluble  in  commiseration. 
Of  course,  if  she  wasn't  going,  they  wouldn't  go.  They  didn't 
want  to.  They  would  sacrifice  a  thousand  plays,  but  not  an 
evening  with  Jane  Holland.  They  bowed  before  her  in  all  the 
postures  and  ceremonies  of  their  adoration.  And  Jane  Holland 
looked  at  them  curiously  with  her  tired  eyes;  and  Tanqueray 
looked  at  her.  He  wondered  how  on  earth  she  was  going  to  get 
rid  ol  them. 

She  did  it  with  a  dexterity  he  would  hardly  have  given  her 
credit  for.     Her  tired  eyes  helped  her. 

Then,  as  the  door  was  closing  on  them,  she  turned  to  him. 
"  Are  you  going  with  them,"  she  said,  "  or  will  you  stay 
with  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  certainly  not  going  with  them "  He  paused,  hesi- 
tating. 

"  Then  —  you  '11  stay  ?  "  For  the  first  time  in  their  inter- 
course she  hesitated  too. 

"  But  you  're  tired  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Not  now." 

She  smiled  appealingly,  but  not  like  a  woman  sure  of  the 
success  of  her  appeal. 

That  lapse  of  certainty  marked  a  difference  in  their  relations. 
He  chose  to  put  it  down  to  the  strange  circumstance  of  her 
celebrity;  and,  though  he  hesitated,  he  stayed.     To  stay  was. 


THE     CEEATORS  5 

after  all,  the  thing  which  at  the  moment  he  most  wanted  to 
do.  And  the  thing  which  Tanqueray  most  wanted  to  do  at  the 
moment  that  he  invariably  did.  This  temper  of  his  had  but 
one  drawback,  that  it  left  him  at  the  moment's  mercy. 

That  was  what  he  felt  now  when  he  found  himself  alone  with 
her  for  the  first  time  in  many  weeks. 

She  wondered  how  far  he  had  seen  through  her.  She  had 
made  the  others  go  that  he  might  stay  with  her,  a  palpable 
manoeuvre.  Of  course  she  would  not  have  lent  herself  to  it 
for  any  ordinary  man.     His  genius  justified  her. 

Six  weeks  ago  she  would  not  have  had  to  retreat  behind  his 
genius.  Six  weeks  ago  she  had  never  thought  of  his  genius  as 
a  thing  apart  from  him.  There  was  her  own  genius,  if  it  came 
to  that.  It  had  its  rights.  Six  weeks  ago  she  would  not  have 
had  to  apologize  to  herself  for  keeping  him. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  could  change  your  mind  so  quickly," 
he  said. 

"  If  you  had  my  mind,  George,  you  M  want  to  change  it." 

"  What 's  wrong  with  your  mind,  Jinny  ?  " 

"  It  won't  work." 

"Ah,  it's  come  to  that,  has  it?     I  knew  it  would." 

She  led  the  way  into  another  room,  the  room  she  wrote  in. 
Jane  lived  alone.     Sometimes  he  had  wondered  how  she  liked  it. 

There  was  defiance  in  her  choice  of  that  top  floor  in  the  old 
house  in  Kensington  Square.  To  make  sure  her  splendid  isola- 
tion, she  had  cut  herself  off  by  a  boarded,  a  barricaded  staircase, 
closed  with  a  door  at  the  foot.  Tanqueray  knew  well  that  con- 
secrated, book-lined  room,  and  the  place  of  everything  it  held. 
He  had  his  own  place  there,  the  place  of  honour  and  affection. 
His  portrait  (a  mere  photograph)  was  on  her  writing-table. 
His  "  Works  " —  five  novels  —  were  on  a  shelf  by  themselves 
at  the  head  of  her  chair,  where  she  could  lay  her  hands  on 
them. 

For  they  had  found  each  other  before  the  world  had  found 
her.  That  was  the  charm  which  had  drawn  tlicm  together, 
which,  more  than  any  of  her  charms,  had  held  him  until  now. 
She  had  preserved  the  incomparable  innocence  of  a  great  artist; 


6  THE     CEEATOES 

she  was  free,  with  the  freedom  of  a  great  nature,  from  what  Tan- 
queray,  who  loathed  it,  called  the  "  literary  taint."  They  both 
avoided  the  circles  where  it  spread  deepest,  in  their  nervous  ter- 
ror of  the  social  process,  of  "  getting  to  know  the  right  people." 
They  confessed  that,  in  the  beginning,  they  had  fought  shy  even 
of  each  other,  lest  one  of  them  should  develop  a  hideous  suscep- 
tibility and  impart  the  taint.  There  were  points  at  which  they 
both  might  have  touched  the  aristocracy  of  journalism;  but  they 
had  had  no  dealings  with  its  proletariat  or  its  demi-monde. 
Below  these  infernal  circles  they  had  discerned  the  fringe  of  tlie 
bottomless  pit,  popularity,  which  he,  the  Master,  told  her  was 
"  the  unclean  thing."  So  that  in  nineteen  hundred  and  two 
George  Tanqueray,  as  a  novelist,  stood 'almost  undiscovered  on 
his  tremendous  height. 

But  it  looked  as  if  Jane  Holland  were  about  to  break  her 
charm. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  it  has  n't  spoilt  you,  Jinny  ?  " 

"What  hasn't?" 

"  Your  pop  —  your  celebrity." 

"  Don't  talk  about  it.     It 's  bad  enough  when  they " 

"  They  need  n't.  I  must.  Celebrity  —  you  observe  that  I  call 
it  by  no  harsher  name  —  celebrity  is  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
I  don't  want  you  to  end  that  way." 

"  I  shan  't.  It 's  not  as  if  I  were  intrigued  by  it.  You  don't 
know  how  I  hate  it  sometimes." 

"  You  hate  it,  yet  you  're  drawn." 

"  By  what  ?     By  my  vanity  ?  " 

"  Not  by  your  vanity,  though  there  is  that." 

"  By  what,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Jinny,  you  're  a  woman." 

"Mayn't  I  be?" 

*'  No,"  he  said  brutally,  "  you  may  n't." 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  pleaded :  "  May  n't  I  be  a  woman  ?  " 
But  she  was  silent,  and  he  answered  her  silence  rather  than  her 
eyes. 

"  Because  you  've  genius." 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S  7 

"  Do  you,  you  of  all  peojole,  tie  me  down  to  that  ?  " 

He  laughed.     "  Why  not  1  ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  you  who  told  me  not  to  keep  back.  You  told 
me  not  to  live  alone.     Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

He  remembered.     It  was  in  the  days  when  he  first  knew  her. 

"  I  did.  Because  you  ran  to  the  other  extreme  then.  You 
were  terrified  of  life." 

"  Because  I  was  a  woman.     You  told  me  to  be  a  woman !  " 

"  Because  I  was  the  only  man  you  knew.  How  you  remember 
things." 

"  That  comes  of  living  alone.  I  've  never  really  forgotten 
anything  you  ever  said  to  me.     It 's  where  I  score." 

"  You  had  nobody  but  me  to  talk  to  then,  if  you  remember." 

"  No.     Nobody  but  you." 

"  And  it  was  n't  enough  for  you." 

"  Oh,  was  n't  it  ?  When  you  were  never  the  same  person  for 
a  week  together.     It  was  like  knowing  fifteen  or  twenty  men." 

He  smiled.  "  I  've  always  been  the  same  man  to  you,  Jinny. 
Have  n't  I  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure,"  said  she. 

"  Anyhow,  you  were  safe  with  me." 

"  From  what  ?  " 

"  From  being  *  had.'  But  now  you  've  begun  knowing  all 
sorts  of  people " 

"  Is  that  why  you  've  kept  away  from  me  ?  " 

He  ignored  her  question.  "  Awful  people,  implacable,  insa- 
tiable, pernicious,  destructive  people.  The  trackers  down,  the 
hangers-on,  the  persecutors,  the  pursuers.  Did  /  ever  pursue 
you  ?  " 

"  No,  George.  I  can't  say  you  ever  did.  I  can't  see  you  i)ur- 
suing  any  one." 

"  They  will.     And  they  '11  have  you  at  every  turn." 

"  No.     I  'm  safe.     You  see,  I  don't  care  for  any  of  them." 

"  They  '11  '  have '  you  all  the  same.  You  lend  yourself  to 
being  '  had.' " 

"  Do  I  ?  "     She  said  it  defiantly. 


8  THE     CEEATORS 

"  No.  You  never  lend  —  you  give  yourself.  To  be  eaten  up. 
You  let  everybody  prey  on  you.  You  'd  be  preyed  on  by  me,  if 
I  let  you." 

"  Oh  —  you " 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  "  I  wonder " 


He  paused,  considering  her  with  brilliant  but  unhappy  eyes. 

"  Jinny,"  he  said,  "  where  do  you  get  the  lire  that  you  put 
into  your  books  ?  " 

"  Where  you  get  yours,"  she  said. 

Again  he  considered  her.  "  Come  out  of  it,"  he  said.  "  Get 
away  from  these  dreadful  people,  these  dreadful,  clever  little 
people." 

She  smiled,  recognizing  them. 

"  Look  at  ine^'  he  said. 

"  Oh,  you,"  she  said  again,  with  another  intonation. 

"  Yes,  me.     I  was  born  out  of  it." 

"And  I  —  wasn't  I  born?  Look  at  me?"  She  turned  to 
him,  holding  her  head  high. 

"  I  am  looking  at  you.  I  've  been  looking  at  you  all  the  even- 
ing —  and  I  see  a  difference  already." 

"  What  you  see  is  the  difference  in  my  clothes.  There  is  no 
difference  in  me." 

It  was  he  who  was  different.  She  looked  at  him,  trying  to 
penetrate  the  secret  of  his  difference.  There  was  a  restlessness 
about  him,  a  fever  and  the  brilliance  fever  brought. 

She  looked  at  him  and  saw  a  creature  dark  and  colourless,  yet 
splendidly  alive.  She  knew  him  by  heart,  every  detail  of  him, 
the  hair,  close-cropped,  that  left  clean  the  full  backward  curve 
of  his  head;  his  face  with  its  patches  of  ash  and  bistre;  his  eyes, 
hazel,  lucid,  intent,  sunk  under  irritable  brows;  his  mouth,  nar- 
rowish,  the  lower  lip  full,  pushed  forward  with  the  slight  promi- 
nence of  its  jaw,  the  upper  lip  accentuated  by  the  tilt  of  its 
moustache.  Tanqueray's  face,  his  features,  always  seemed  to  her 
to  lean  forward  as  against  a  wind,  suggesting  things  eager  and 
in  salient  flight.  They  sliarcd  now  in  his  difference,  his  excite- 
ment.    His  eyes  as  they  looked  at  her  had  lost  something  of  their 


THE    CREATORS  9 

old  lucidity.  They  were  more  brilliant  and  yet  somehow  more 
obscure. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  saw  how  he  was  driven. 

He  was  out  on  the  first  mad  hunt  with  love.  Love  and  he 
stalked  the  hills,  questing  the  visionary  maid. 

It  was  not  she.  His  trouble  was  as  yet  vague  and  purely  im- 
personal. She  saw  (it  was  her  business)  by  every  infallible 
sign  and  token  that  it  was  not  she.  She  saw,  too,  that  he  was 
enraged  with  her  for  this  reason,  that  it  was  not  she.  That 
showed  that  he  was  approaching  headlong  the  point  of  danger; 
and  she,  if  she  were  his  friend,  was  bound  to  keep  him  back.  He 
was  not  in  love  with  her  or  with  any  one,  but  he  was  in  tbat 
insane  mood  when  honourable  men  marry,  sometimes  disas- 
trously. Any  woman,  even  she,  could  draw  him  to  her  now  by 
holding  out  her  hand. 

And  between  them  there  came  a  terror,  creeping  like  a  beast 
of  prey,  dumb,  and  holding  them  dumb.  She  searched  for 
words  to  dispel  it,  but  no  words  came;  her  heart  beat  too  quickly ; 
he  must  hear  it  beat.  That  was  not  the  signal  he  was  waiting 
for,  that  beating  of  her  heart. 

He  tried  to  give  himself  the  semblance  and  the  sense  of  ease 
by  walking  about  the  room  and  examining  the  things  in  it. 
There  were  some  that  it  had  lacked  before,  signs  that  the  young 
novelist  had  increased  in  material  prosperity.  Yes.  He  had 
liked  her  better  when  she  had  worked  harder  and  was  as  poor 
as  he.  They  had  come  to  look  on  poverty  as  their  protection 
from  the  ruinous  world.  He  now  realized  that  it  had  also  been 
their  protection  from  each  other.     He  was  too  poor  to  marry. 

He  reflected  with  some  bitterness  that  Jane  was  not,  now. 

She  in  her  corner  called  him  from  his  wanderings.  She  had 
made  the  coffee.  He  drank  it  where  he  stood,  on  the  hcaitbrug, 
ignoring  his  old  place  on  the  sofa  by  her  side. 

She  brooded  there,  leaving  her  cup  untasted.  She  had  ma- 
noeuvred to  keep  him.  And  now  she  wished  that  she  had  let 
him  go. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  drink  your  coffee?"  he  said. 


10  THECEEATORS 

"  No.     I  shan't  sleep  if  I  do." 

"  Have  n't  you  been  sleeping  ?  " 

"  Not  very  well." 

"  That 's  why  you  're  looking  like  your  portrait.  That  man 
is  n't  such  a  silly  ass  as  I  thought  he  was.'' 

"  I  wish,"  she  said,  "  you  'd  contrive  to  forget  him,  and  it, 
and  everything." 

"  Everything  ?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  The  horrid  thing  that 's  hap- 
pened to  me.  My  —  my  celebrity."  She  brought  it  out  with  a 
little  shiver  of  revolt. 

He  laughed.  "  But  when  you  remind  me  of  it  every  minute  ? 
When  it's  everlastingly,  if  I  may  say  so,  on  the  carpet?" 

Her  eyes  followed  his.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  bought 
a  new  one. 

"  It  does  n't  mean  what  you  think  it  does.  It  is  n't,  it  really 
is  n't  as  bad  as  that " 

"  I  was  afraid." 

"  You  need  n't  be.  I  'm  still  living  from  hand  to  mouth,  only 
rather  larger  mouthfuls." 

"  Why  apologize  ?  " 

"  I  can't  help  it.  You  make  me  feel  like  some  horrid  literary 
parvenu." 

"  I  make  you  feel ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  —  you.  You  don't  think  me  a  parvenu,  do 
you  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  You  know  what  I  think  you." 

"  I  don't.     I  only  know  what  you  used  to  think  me." 

"  I  think  the  same." 

"Tell  me  — tell  me." 

"  I  think,  if  you  can  hold  yourself  together  for  the  next  five 
years,  you  '11  write  a  superb  book.  Jinny.  But  it  all  depends  on 
what  you  do  with  yourself  in  the  next  five  years." 

He  paused. 

"At  the  present  moment  there's  hardly  any  one  —  of  our 
generation,  mind  you  —  who  counts  except  you  and  I." 

He  paused  again. 


THECREATORS  11 

"  If  you  and  I  have  done  anytliing  decent  it 's  because,  first 
of  all,  our  families  have  cast  us  off." 

"  Mine  has  n't  yet." 

"  It 's  only  a  question  of  time  if  you  go  on,"  said  Tanqueray. 

He  had  never  seen  Jane's  family.  He  knew  vaguely  that  her 
father  was  the  rector  of  a  small  parish  in  Dorset,  and  that  he 
had  had  two  wives  in  such  rapid  succession  that  their  effect 
from  a  distance,  so  Tanqueray  said,  was  scandalously  simultane- 
ous. The  rector,  indeed,  had  married  his  iirst  wife  for  the  sake 
of  a  child,  and  his  second  for  the  child's  sake.  He  had  thus 
achieved  a  younger  family  so  numerous  that  it  had  kept  him 
from  providing  properly  for  Jane.  It  was  what  Tanqueray 
called  the  "  consecrated  immorality  "  of  Jane's  father  that  had 
set  Jane  free. 

Tanqueray's  father  was  a  retired  colonel.  A  man  of  action, 
of  rash  and  inconsiderate  action,  he  regarded  Tanqueray  with 
a  disapproval  so  warm  and  generous  that  it  left  the  young  man 
freer,  if  anything,  than  Jane. 

"  Anyhow,"  he  went  on,  "  we  have  n't  let  ourselves  be  drawn 
in.     And  yet  that 's  our  temptation,  yours  and  mine." 

Again  he  paused. 

"  If  we  were  painters  or  musicians  we  should  be  safer.  Their 
art  draws  them  by  one  divine  sense.  Ours  drags  us  by  the  heart 
and  brain,  by  the  very  soul,  into  the  thick  of  it.  The  unpardon- 
able sin  is  separating  literature  from  life.  You  know  that  as 
well  as  I  do." 

She  did.  She  worked  divinely,  shaping  unashamed  the  bodies 
and  the  souls  of  men.  There  was  nothing  in  contemporary  liter- 
ature to  compare  with  the  serene,  inspired  audacity  of  Jane  Hol- 
land. Her  genius  seemed  to  have  kept  the  transcendent  inno- 
cence of  the  days  before  creation. 

Tanqueray  continued  in  his  theme.  Talking  like  this  allayed 
his  excitement. 

"  We  're  bound,"  he  said,  "  to  get  mixed  up  with  people. 
They  're  the  stuff  we  work  in.  It 's  almost  impossible  to  keep 
sinless  and  detached.  We  're  being  tempted  all  the  time.  Peo- 
ple —  people  —  people  —  we  can't  have  enough  of  'em ;  we  can't 


12  THECEEATOES 

keep  off  'em.  The  thing  is  —  to  keep  'em  off  us.  And  Jane,  I 
know  —  they  're  getting  at  you." 

She  did  not  deny  it.     They  were. 

"  And  you  have  n't  the  —  the  nerve  to  stand  up  against  it." 

"  I  have  stood  up  against  it." 

"  You  have.     So  have  I.     Wlien  we  were  both  poor." 

"  You  want  me  to  be  poor  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  be  a  howling  pauper  like  me,  but,  well, 
just  pleasantly  short  of  cash.  There 's  nothing  like  that  for 
keeping  you  out  of  it." 

"  You  want  me  to  be  thoroughly  uncomfortable  ?  Deprived 
of  everything  that  makes  life  amusing  ?  " 

"  Thoroughly  uncomfortable.  Deprived  of  everything  that 
stands  in  the  way  of  your  genius." 

She  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  jealousy,  a  hatred  of  her  genius, 
this  thing  that  had  been  tacked  on  to  her.  He  cared  for  it  and 
could  be  tender  to  it,  but  not  to  her. 

"  You  're  a  cruel  beast,"  she  said,  smiling  through  her  pain. 

"  My  cruelty  and  my  beastliness  are  nothing  to  the  beastliness 
and  the  cruelty  of  art.  The  Lord  our  God  is  a  consuming  hre. 
You  must  be  prepared  to  be  burnt." 

"  It 's  all  very  well  for  you,  George.     I  don't  like  being  burnt." 

That  roused  him;  it  stirred  the  devil  in  him. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  like  it  ?  Why,  you  —  you  don't  know 
what  burning  is.  It  means  standing  by,  on  fire  with  thirst,  and 
seeing  other  people  drink  themselves  drunk." 

"  You  don't  want  to  be  drunk,  George.     Any  more  than  I  do." 

"  I  do  not,  thank  God.  But  it  would  be  all  the  same  if  I  did. 
I  can't  get  a  single  thing  I  do  want." 

"  Can't  you?  I  should  have  thought  you  could  have  got  most 
things  you  really  wanted." 

"  I  could  if  I  were  a  grocer  or  a  draper.  Why,  a  hair-dresser 
has  more  mastery  of  the  means  of  life." 

He  was  telling  her,  she  knew,  that  he  was  too  poor  for  the 
quest  of  the  matchless  lady;  and  through  all  his  young  and 
sombre  rage  of  frustration  there  flashed  forth  his  anger  with 
her  as  the  unfit. 


THECEEATORS  13 

He  began  to  tramp  up  and  down  the  room  again,  by  way  of 
distraction  from  his  mood.  Now  and  then  his  eyes  turned  to 
her  with  no  thouglit  in  them,  only  that  dark,  unhappy  fire. 

He  was  quiet  now.  He  had  caught  sight  of  some  sheets  of 
manuscript  lying  on  her  desk. 

"What's  this?"  he  said. 

"  Only  the  last  thing  I  've  written." 

"  May  I  look  ?  " 

"  You  may." 

He  took  it  up  and  sat  beside  her,  close  beside  her,  and  turned 
the  leaves  over  with  a  nervous  hand.  He  was  not  reading. 
There  was  no  thought  in  his  eyes. 

He  looked  at  her  again.  She  saw  that  he  was  at  the  mercy 
of  his  moment,  and  of  hers. 

For  it  was  her  moment.  There  was  a  power  that  every  woman 
had,  if  she  cared  to  use  it  and  knew  how.  There  was  a  charm 
that  had  nothing  to  do  with  beauty,  for  it  was  present  in  the 
unbeautiful.  These  things  had  their  life  secret  and  apart  from 
every  other  charm  and  every  other  power.  His  senses  called  to 
the  unknown  and  unacknowledged  sense  in  her.  She  knew  that 
he  could  be  hers  if  she  answered  to  that  call.  She  had  only  to 
kindle  her  flame,  send  out  her  signal. 

And  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  can't.  I  can't  take  him  like  this. 
He  is  n't  himself.     It  would  be  hateful  of  me." 

In  that  moment  she  had  no  fear.  Love  held  her  back  and 
burning  honour  that  hardly  knew  itself  from  shame.  It  accused 
her  of  having  manoeuvred  for  that  moment.  It  said,  "  You  can't 
let  him  come  in  like  this  and  trap  him." 

Another  voice  in  her  whispered,  "  You  fool.  If  you  don't 
marry  him  some  other  woman  will  —  in  this  mood  of  his."  And 
honour  cried,  answering  it,  "  Let  her.     So  long  as  it  is  n't  I." 

She  had  a  torturing  sense  of  his  presence.  And  with  it  her 
fear  came  back  to  her,  and  she  rose  suddenly  to  her  feet,  and 
stood  apart  from  him. 

He  flung  the  manuscript  into  the  place  she  had  left,  and  bowed 
forward,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  rose  too,  and  she 
knew  that  his  moment  had  gone.     She  had  let  it  go. 


14  THECEEATOES 

Then,  with  a  foreboding  of  his  departure,  she  tried  to  call  him 
back  to  her,  not  in  his  way,  but  her  own,  the  way  of  the  heart. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  should  like  to  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  I 
should  like  to  sweep  it  all  away,  and  to  get  back  to  that  little 
room,  and  for  nobody  to  come  near  me  but  you,  nobody  to  read 
me  but  you,  nobody  to  talk  about  me  but  you.  Do  you 
remember  ?  " 

He  did,  but  he  was  not  going  to  talk  about  it.  In  the  fierce- 
ness of  his  mortal  moment  he  was  impatient  of  everything  that 
for  her  held  immorality. 

"  We  were  so  happy  then,"  she  said.  "  Why  can't  we  be 
happy  now  ?  " 

"  I  've  told  you  why." 

"  Yes,  and  I  can't  bear  it.     When  I  think  of  you " 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  lucid  gaze  of  the  psychologist,  of 
the  physician  who  knew  her  malady. 

"  Don't  think  of  me,"  he  said.  His  eyes  seemed  to  say, 
"  That  would  be  worst  of  all." 

And  so  he  left  her. 


II 

HE  really  did  not  want  her  to  think  of  him,  any  more  than 
he  wanted  to  think  intensely  and  continuously  of  her. 
What  he  had  admired  in  her  so  much  was  her  deep  loyalty  to 
their  compact,  the  way  she  had  let  him  alone  and  insisted  on  his 
letting  her  alone. 

This  desire  of  Tanqueray's  for  detachment  was  not  so  much 
an  attitude  as  an  instinct.  His  genius  actually  throve  on  his 
seclusion,  and  absorption  in  life  would  have  destroyed  its  finest 
qualities.  It  had  no  need  of  sustained  and  frequent  intercourse 
with  men  and  women.  For  it  worked  with  an  incredible  ra- 
pidity. It  took  at  a  touch  and  with  a  glance  of  the  eye  the 
thing  it  wanted.  It  was  an  eye  that  unstripped,  a  hand  that 
plunged  under  all  coverings  to  the  essential  nakedness. 

His  device  was,  "Look  and  let  go."  He  had  never  allowed 
himself  to  hold  on  or  be  held  on  to;  for  thus  you  were  dragged 
down  and  swamped;  you  were  stifled  by  the  stuff  you  worked 
in.  Your  senses,  he  maintained,  were  no  good  if  you  could  n't  see 
a  thing  at  the  first  glance  and  feel  it  with  the  first  touch.  Vision 
and  contact  prolonged  removed  you  so  many  degrees  from  the 
reality ;  and  what  you  saw  that  way  was  not  a  bit  of  use  to  you. 
He  denied  perversely  that  genius  was  two-sexed,  or  that  it  was 
even  essentially  a  virile  thing.  The  fruitful  genius  was  femi- 
nine, rather,  humble  and  passive  in  its  attitude  to  life.  It 
yearned  perpetually  for  the  embrace,  the  momentary  embrace 
of  the  real.  But  no  more.  All  that  it  wanted,  all  that  it  could 
deal  with  was  the  germ,  the  undeveloped  thing;  the  growing 
and  shaping  and  bringing  forth  must  be  its  own.  The  live 
thing,  the  thing  that  kicked,  was  never  produced  in  any  other 
way.  Genius  in  a  great  realist  was  itself  flesh  and  blood.  It 
was  only  the  little  men  that  were  the  plagiarists  of  life;  only 

15 


16  THECREATOES 

the  sterile  imaginations  that  adopted  the  already  born,  and  bar- 
gained with  experience  to  do  their  work  for  them. 

And  yet  there  was  no  more  assiduous  devotee  of  experience 
than  George  Tanqueray.  He  repudiated  with  furious  contempt 
any  charge  of  inspiration.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  inspira- 
tion. There  was  instinct,  and  there  was  eyesight.  The  rest 
was  all  infernal  torment  and  labour  in  the  sweat  of  your  brow. 
All  this  Tanqueray  believed  sincerely. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  find  a  creature  so  subtle  and  at 
the  same  time  so  unsophisticated  as  he. 

For  five  years  his  genius,  his  temperament  and  his  poverty 
had  combined  to  keep  him  in  a  half-savage  virgin  solitude. 
Men  had  penetrated  it,  among  them  one  or  two  distinguished  in 
his  own  profession.  But  as  for  their  women,  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  distinguished,  he  had  shrunk  perceptibly  from 
their  advances.  He  condemned  their  manner  as  a  shade  too 
patronizing  to  his  proud  obscurity.  And  now,  at  two-and- 
thirty,  of  three  women  whom  he  really  knew,  he  only  really 
cared  for  one,  Jane  Holland. 

He  had  further  escaped  the  social  round  by  shifting  his  abode 
incessantly,  flying  from  the  town  to  the  country,  and  from  the 
country  back  to  the  town,  driven  from  each  haunt,  he  declared, 
by  people,  persistent,  insufferable  people. 

For  the  last  week  he  had  been  what  he  called  settled  at  Hamp- 
stead.  The  charm  of  Hampstead  was  that  nobody  whom  he 
knew  lived  there. 

He  had  chosen  the  house  because  it  stood  at  a  corner,  in  a 
road  too  steep  for  traffic.  He  had  chosen  his  rooms  because  they 
looked  on  to  a  green  slope  with  a  row  of  willows  at  the  bottom 
and  a  row  of  willows  at  the  top,  and  because,  beyond  the  willows, 
he  could  see  the  line  of  a  low  hill,  pure  and  sharp  against  the 
sky.  At  sunset  the  grass  of  his  slope  turned  to  a  more  piercing 
green  and  its  patches  of  brown  earth  to  purple.  He  looked  at 
the  sublime  procession  of  his  willows  and  reminded  himself  with 
ecstasy  that  there  was  not  a  soul  in  Hampstead  whom  he  knew. 
And  that  suburb  appeared  to  him  an  enchanted  place  where  at 


THECEEATOKS  17 

last  he  had  found  peace.  He  would  stay  there  for  ever,  in 
those  two  rooms. 

Here,  on  the  morning  after  he  had  dined  with  Jane  Holland, 
he  sat  down  to  write.  And  he  wrote,  but  with  a  fury  that  de- 
stroyed more  than  it  created.  In  those  days  Tanqueray  could 
never  count  upon  his  genius.  The  thing  would  stay  with  him 
peaceably  for  months  at  a  time;  but  it  never  let  him  know  the 
precise  moment  of  its  arrival  or  departure.  At  times  it  seemed 
the  one  certainty  in  an  otherwise  dubious  world,  at  other  times 
it  was  a  creature  of  unmistakably  feminine  caprice.  He 
courted  it,  and  it  avoided  him.  He  let  it  go,  and  it  came  back 
to  him,  caressing  and  tormenting  him,  compelling  his  embrace. 
There  were  days  when  it  pursued  and  captured  him,  and  then 
it  had  wings  that  swept  him  divinely  to  its  end.  There  were 
days  when  he  had  to  go  out  and  find  it,  and  lure  the  winged 
thing  back  to  him.  Once  caught,  it  was  unswerving  in  its 
operations. 

But  Tanqueray  had  no  lower  power  he  could  fall  back  upon 
when  his  genius  failed  him.  And  apparently  it  had  failed  him 
now.     In  forty-eight  hours  he  had  accomplished  nothing. 

At  the  end  of  the  forty-ninth  hour  wasted,  he  drew  his  pen 
through  what  he  had  written  and  sank  into  a  depth  as  yet  un- 
known to  him.  His  genius  had  before  now  appeared  to  him  as 
an  insane  hallucination.  But  still  he  had  cared  for  it  supremely. 
Now,  the  horrible  thing  was  that  he  did  not  care.  His  genius 
was  of  all  things  that  which  interested  him  least.  He  was 
possessed  by  one  trouble  and  by  one  want,  the  more  devastating 
because  it  was  aimless  and  obscure. 

That  came  of  dining  with  Jane  Holland. 

He  was  not  in  love  with  Jane.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  very 
angry  with  her  for  wanting  him  to  be  in  love  with  her  when  he 
could  not  be.  And  he  was  angry  with  himself  for  wanting  to 
be  in  love  with  her  when  he  could  not  be,  when  his  heart  (by 
which  the  psychologist  meant  his  senses)   was  not  in  it. 

But  wherever  his  heart  was,  his  thoughts,  when  he  let  them 
go,  were  always  running  upon  Jane.     They  ran  on  her  now. 


18  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S 

He  conceived  of  her  more  than  ever  as  the  unfit.  "  She 's  too 
damnably  clever,"  he  kept  saying  to  himself,  "  too  damnably 
clever/'  And  he  took  up  her  last  book  just  to  see  again  how 
damnably  clever  she  was. 

In  an  instant  he  was  at  her  feet.  She  was  n't  clever  when  she 
wrote  that.  What  a  genius  she  had,  what  a  burning,  flashing, 
laughing  genius.  It  matched  his  own;  it  rose  to  it,  giving  him 
flame  for  flame.  Almost  as  clear-eyed  it  was,  and  tenderer 
hearted.  Eeading  Jane  Holland,  Tanqueray  became  depressed 
or  exalted  according  to  his  mood.     He  was  now  depressed. 

But  he  could  not  leave  her.  In  spirit  he  remained  at  her  feet. 
He  bowed  himself  in  the  dust.  "  I  could  n't  have  done  it,"  he 
said,  "to  save  my  life.     I  shall  never  do  anything  like  that." 

He  wrote  and  told  her  so.  But  he  did  not  go  to  see  her,  as 
he  would  have  done  six  weeks  ago. 

And  then  he  began  wondering  how  she  conceived  these  things 
if  she  did  not  feel  them.  "  I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  she 
does  n't  feel.     She  's  like  me."     Too  like  him  to  be  altogether  fit. 

So  he  found  confusion  in  his  judgment  and  mystery  in  his 
vision  of  her,  while  his  heart  made  and  unmade  her  image  ten 
times  a  day. 

He  went  out  and  tramped  the  lanes  and  fields  for  miles 
beyond  Hampstead.  He  lay  stretched  out  there  on  his  green 
slopes,  trying  not  to  think  about  Jane.  For  all  this  exercise 
fatigued  him,  and  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  think  of  any- 
thing else.  And  when  he  got  back  into  his  room  its  solitude 
was  intolerable.  For  ten  days  he  had  not  spoken  to  any  woman 
but  his  landlady.  Every  morning,  before  he  sat  down  to  write, 
he  had  to  struggle  with  his  terror  of  Mrs.  Eldred.  It  was  grow- 
ing on  him  like  a  nervous  malady. 

An  ordinary  man  would  have  said  of  Mrs.  Eldred  that  she 
was  rather  a  large  woman.  To  Tanqueray,  in  his  malady,  she 
appeared  immense.  The  appeal  of  lier  immensity  was  not  merely 
to  the  eye.  It  fascinated  and  demoralized  the  imagination. 
Tanqueray's  imagination  was  sane  when  it  was  at  work,  handling 
the  stuff  of  life;  it  saw  all  things  unexaggerated,  unabridged. 
But  the  power  went  wild  when  he  turned  it  out  to  play.     It 


THECEEATOKS  19 

played  with  Mrs.  Eldred's  proportions  till  it  became  tormented 
with  visions  of  shapeless  and  ungovernable  size.  He  saw  her 
figure  looming  in  the  doorway,  brooding  over  his  table  and  his 
bed,  rolling  through  space  to  inconceivable  confines  which  it 
burst.  For  though  this  mass  moved  slowly,  it  was  never  still. 
When  it  stood  it  quivered.  Worse  than  anything,  when  it  spoke 
it  wheezed. 

He  had  gathered  from  Mrs.  Eldred  that  her  conversation  (if 
you  could  call  it  conversation)  was  the  foredoomed  beginning 
of  his  day.  He  braced  himself  to  it  every  morning,  but  at  last 
his  nerves  gave  way,  and  he  forgot  himself  so  far  as  to  implore 
her  for  God's  sake  not  to  talk  to  him. 

The  large  woman  replied  placably  that  if  he  would  leave  every- 
thing to  her,  it  would  not  be  necessary  for  her  to  talk. 

He  left  everything.  At  the  end  of  the  week  his  peace  was 
charged  to  him  at  a  figure  which  surprised  him  by  its  modera- 
tion. 

Still  he  was  haunted  by  one  abominable  fear,  the  fear  of  being 
ill,  frightfully  ill,  and  dying  in  some  vast  portion  of  her  arms. 
Under  the  obsession  of  this  thought  he  passed  whole  hours  sitting 
at  his  desk,  bowed  forward,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 

He  was  roused  from  it  one  evening  by  a  sound  that  came 
from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  somewhere  near  the  sideboard. 
It  startled  him,  because,  being  unaccompanied  by  any  wheezing, 
it  could  not  have  proceeded  from  Mrs.  Eldred.  It  was,  indeed, 
one  of  those  small  voices  that  come  from  things  diminutive  and 
young.  It  seemed  to  be  trying  to  tell  him  that  dinner  was 
ready.  He  looked  round  over  his  shoulder  to  see  what  kind  of 
creature  it  was  that  coukl  thus  introduce  itself  without  his 
knowledge. 

It  was  young,  young  almost  to  excess.  He  judged  it  to  be 
about  two-  or  three-and-twenty.  At  his  approach  it  drew  as  close 
as  possible  to  the  sideboard.  It  had  the  air  of  cultivating  assidu- 
ously the  art  of  self-effacement,  for  its  face,  when  looked  at, 
achieved  an  expression  of  inimitable  remoteness. 

He  now  perceived  that  the  creature  was  not  only  young  but 
most  adorably  feminine.     He  smiled,  simply  to  reassure  it. 


so  THECEEATORS 

"  How  on  earth  did  you  get  in  without  my  hearing  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  told  to  be  very  quiet,  sir.     And  not  to  speak." 

"  Well,  you  have  spoken,  have  n't  you  ?  " 

She,  as  it  were,  seized  upon  and  recovered  the  smile  that 
darted  out  to  play  reprehensibly  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  I  had  to,"  said  she. 

Soft-footed  and  soft-tongued,  moving  like  a  breath,  that  was 
how  Eose  Eldred  first  appeared  to  George  Tanqueray. 

He  had  asked  her  name,  and  her  name,  she  said,  was  Eose. 

If  you  reasoned  about  Eose,  you  saw  that  she  had  no  right 
to  be  pretty,  yet  she  was.  Nature  had  defied  reason  when  she 
made  her,  working  from  some  obscure  instinct  for  roundness; 
an  instinct  which  would  have  achieved  perfection  in  the  moulding 
of  Eose's  body  if  Eose  had  only  grown  two  inches  taller.  Not 
that  the  purest  reason  could  think  of  Eose  as  dumpy.  Her 
figure,  defying  nature,  passed  for  perfect.  It  was  her  face  that 
baffled  you.  It  had  a  round  chin  that  was  a  shade  too  large  for 
it;  an  absurd  little  nose  with  a  round  end,  tilted;  grey  eyes  a 
thought  too  round,  and  eyebrows  too  thick  by  a  hair's-breadth. 
Not  a  feature  that  did  not  err  by  a  thought,  a  hair's-breadth 
or  a  shade.  All  but  her  mouth,  and  that  was  perfect.  A  small 
mouth,  with  lips  so  soft,  so  full,  that  you  could  have  called  it 
round.  It  had  pathetic  corners,  and  when  she  spoke  it  trembled 
for  very  softness.  From  her  mouth  upwards  it  was  as  if  Eose's 
face  had  been  first  delicately  painted,  and  then  as  delicately 
blurred.     Only  her  chin  was  left  clean  and  decided. 

And  as  Nature,  in  making  Eose's  body,  had  erred  by  excess  of 
roundness,  when  it  came  to  Eose's  hair,  she  rioted  in  an  iniq- 
uitous, an  unjust  largesse  of  vitality.  Eose  herself  seemed  aware 
of  the  sin  of  it,  she  tried  so  hard  to  restrain  it,  coiling  it  tight 
at  the  back,  and  smoothing  it  sleek  as  a  bird's  wing  above  her 
brows.  Mouse-colored  hair  it  was  on  the  top,  and  shining  gold 
at  the  temples  and  at  the  roots  that  curled  away  under  the  coil. 

She  wore  a  brown  skirt,  and  a  green  bodice  with  a  linen  collar, 
and  a  knot  of  brown  ribbon  at  her  throat. 

Thus  attired,  for  three  days  Eose  waited  on  him.     For  three 


THECREATORS  21 

days  she  never  spoke  a  word  except  to  tell  him  that  a  meal  was 
ready. 

In  three  days  he  noticed  a  remarkable  increase  in  his  material 
comfort.  There  was  about  Rose  a  shining  cleanliness  that  im- 
parted itself  to  everything  she  laid  her  hands  on.  (Her  hands 
were  light  in  their  touch  and  exquisitely  gentle.)  His  writing- 
table  was  like  a  shrine  that  she  tended.  Every  polished  surface 
of  it  shone,  and  every  useful  thing  lay  ready  to  his  hand.  Not 
a  paper  out  of  its  order,  or  a  pen  out  of  its  place.  The  charm 
was  that  he  never  caught  her  at  it.  In  all  her  ministrations 
Rose  was  secret  and  silent  and  unseen. 

Only  every  evening  at  nightfall  he  heard  the  street  door  open, 
and  Rose's  voice  calling  into  the  darkness,  sending  out  a  cry 
that  had  the  magic  and  rhythm  of  a  song,  "  Puss — Puss — Puss," 
she  called;  "  Minny — Min — Min — Minny — Puss — Puss — Puss." 
That  was  the  hymn  with  which  Rose  saluted  the  night.  It 
ought  to  have  irritated  him,  but  it  didn't. 

It  was  all  he  heard  of  her,  till  on  the  fourth  evening  she 
broke  her  admirable  silence.  She  had  just  removed  the  table- 
cloth, shyly,  from  under  the  book  he  was  reading. 

"  It  is  n't  good  for  you  to  read  at  meal-times,  sir." 

"  I  know  it  is  n't.  But  what  are  you  to  do  if  you  've  nobodv 
to  talk  to?" 

A  long  silence.     It  seemed  as  if  Rose  was  positively  thinking. 

"  You  should  go  out  more,  sir." 

"I  don't  like  going  out." 

Silence  again.  Rose  had  folded  up  the  cloth  and  put  it  away 
in  its  drawer.     Yet  she  lingered. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  little  dogs,  sir  ?  " 

"  Little  dogs  ?     I  did  n't  know  there  were  any." 

"  We  keep  them  very  quiet ;  but  we  've  seven.  We  've  a  fox 
and  a  dandy"  (Rose  grew  breathless  with  excitement),  "and 
an  Aberdeen,  and  two  Aberdeen  pups,  and  two  Poms,  a  mole 
and  a  Mdiite.     May  they  come  up,  sir  ?  " 

"  By  all  means  let  them  come  up." 

She  ran  down-stairs,  and  returned  with  the  seven  little  dogs 


32  THECREATORS 

at  her  heels.  Tanqueray  held  out  his  hand  invitingly.  (He 
was  fond  of  animals.)  The  fox  and  the  dandy  sniffed  him  sus- 
piciously. The  old  Aberdeen  ran  away  from  him  backwards, 
showing  her  teeth.  Her  two  pups  sat  down  in  the  doorway  and 
yapped  at  him. 

Rose  tried  not  to  laugh,  while  the  Poms  ran  round  and  round 
her  skirts,  panting  with  their  ridiculous  exertions. 

"  That 's  Prince  —  the  mole  —  he  's  a  pedigree  dog.  He 
does  n't  belong  to  us.  And  this,"  said  Rose,  darting  under  the 
table  and  picking  up  the  white  Pom,  "  this  is  Joey." 

The  white  Pom  leaped  in  her  arms.  He  licked  her  face  in  a 
rapture  of  affection. 

"  Is  Joey  a  pedigree  dog,  too  ?  "  said  Tanqueray. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose.     She  met  his  eyes  without  flinching. 

"  So  young  a  dog " 

"  No,  sir,  Joey  's  not  so  very  young." 

She  was  caressing  the  little  thing  tenderly,  and  Tanqueray 
saw  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  Joey. 

Joey  was  deplorably  lean  and  puny,  and  his  hair,  which  should 
have  stood  out  till  Joey  appeared  three  times  the  size  he  was, 
his  hair,  what  hair  he  had,  lay  straight  and  limp  along  his  little 
back.     Rose  passed  her  hand  over  him  the  wrong  way. 

"  You  should  always  brush  a  Pom  the  wrong  way,  sir.  It 
brings  the  hair  on." 

"  I  'm  afraid.  Rose,  you  've  worn  his  hair  away  with  stroking 
it." 

"  Oh  no,  sir.  That 's  the  peculiarity  of  Joey's  breed.  Joey  's 
my  dog,  sir." 

"  So  I  see." 

He  saw  it  all.  Joey  was  an  indubitable  mongrel,  but  he  was 
Rose's  dog,  and  she  loved  him,  therefore  Joey's  fault,  his  hair- 
lessness,  had  become  the  peculiarity,  not  to  say  the  superiority, 
of  Joey's  breed. 

She  read   his   thoughts. 

"  We  're  taking  great  pains  to  bring  it  on  before  the  tenth." 

"  The  tenth  ?  " 

"  The  Dog  Show,  sir." 


THE     CREATORS  •  33 

(Heavens  above!     She  was  going  to  show  him!) 

"  And  do  you  think  you  '11  bring  it  on  before  the  tenth  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  sir.  You  've  only  got  to  brush  a  Pom's  hair  back- 
wards and  it  comes." 

The  little  dogs  clamoured  to  be  gone.  She  stooped,  stroking 
them,  smoothing  their  ears  back  and  gazing  into  their  eyes,  lost 
in  her  own  tenderness,  and  unaware  that  she  was  watched.  If 
Rose  had  been  skilled  in  the  art  of  allurement  she  could  not 
have  done  better  than  let  him  see  how  she  loved  all  things  that 
had  life. 

"  How  any  one  can  be  unkind  to  dumb  animals,"  said  Rose, 
musing. 

She  moved  slowly  to  the  door,  gathering  up  the  puppies  in 
her  arms,  and  calling  to  the  rest  to  follow  her.  "  Come  along," 
she  said,  "  and  see  what  Pussy's  doing." 

He  heard  her  voice  going  down-stairs  saying,  "  Puss  —  Puss  — 
Pussy  —  Min  —  Min  —  Min." 

When  she  appeared  to  him  the  next  day,  Minny,  the  cat,  was 
hanging  by  his  claws  on  to  her  shoulder. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  cats,  sir  ?  " 

"I  adore  them."     (He  did.) 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  Minny,  sir  ?  He  '11  be  nice  company 
for  you." 

"Ought  I  to  deprive  you  of  his  society?" 

"  I  don't  mind,  sir.  I  've  got  the  little  dogs."  She  looked 
at  him  softly.     "  And  you  've  got  nothing." 

"  True,  Rose.     I  've  got  nothing." 

That  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  chair,  with  Rose's  cat  curled 
up  on  his  knee,  he  found  himself  thinking,  preposterously  think- 
ing, about  Rose. 

He  supposed  she  was  Mrs.  Eldred's  daughter.  He  did  not  like 
to  think  of  her  as  Mrs.  Eldred's  daughter.  She  was  charming 
now ;  but  he  had  a  vision  of  her  as  she  might  be  in  twenty  years' 
time,  grown  shapeless  and  immense,  and  wheezing  as  Mrs.  Eldred 
wheezed.  Yet  no;  that  was  too  horrible.  You  could  not  think 
of  Rose  as  —  wheezing.  People  did  not  always  take  after  their 
mothers.     Rose  must  have  had  a  father.     Of  course,  Eldred  was 


24  THE     CREA  TOES 

her  father;  and  Eldred  was  a  small  man,  lean  and  brown  as  a 
beetle;  and  he  had  never  heard  him  wheeze. 

At  dinner-time  Eose  solved  his  doubt. 

"  Aunt  says,  sir,  do  you  mind  my  waitin'  on  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  mind  it  in  the  very  least." 

"  It  '&  beginning  to  be  a  trouole  to  Aunt  now  to  get  up-stairs." 

"  I  would  n't  dream  of  troubling  your  aunt." 

Her  aunt?  Mrs.  Eldred  was  not  her  mother.  Ah,  but  you 
could  take  after  your  aunt. 

He  found  that  this  question  absorbed  him  more  than  was  be- 
coming.    He  determined  to  settle  it. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  here,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  with  guile. 

"  Yes,  sir.     I  've  come  back  to  live  with  Uncle." 

"  Have  you  always  lived  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     Father  left  me  to  Uncle  when  he  died." 

"  Then,  Eose,  Mrs.  Eldred  is  not  your  aunt  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  said  Eose  eagerly. 

Tanqueray  felt  a  relief  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  cause. 

He  continued  the  innocent  conversation. 

"  And  so  you  're  going  to  look  after  me,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Eose.  He  noticed  that  when  she  dropped  the 
"  sir,"  it  was  because  her  voice  drew  itself  back  with  a  little 
gasping  breath. 

"  And  your  aunt,  you  think,  really  won't  be  equal  to  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  you  see,  she  gets  all  of  a  flutter  like,  and  then 
she  w'eezes,  and  she  knows  that 's  irritating  for  you  to  hear." 
She  paused.  "  And  Aunt  was  afraid  that  if  you  was  irritated, 
sir,  you  'd  go.     Nothin'  could  keep  you." 

(How  thoroughly  they  understood  him!) 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  irritated  any  more.  But  it  is  unfortunate, 
is  n't  it,  that  she  —  er  —  wheezes  ?  " 

He  had  tried  before  now  to  make  Eose  laugh.  He  wanted  to 
see  how  she  did  it.  It  would  be  a  test.  And  he  perceived  that, 
somewhere  behind  her  propriety,  Eose  cherished  a  secret,  iniq- 
uitous enjoyment  of  her  aunt. 

An  imp  of  merriment  danced  in  Eose's  eyes,  but  the  rest  of 


'  How  ;iny  one  can  lie  iiiikiud  to  duiub  animals,"  said  1-ioso,  musing 


THECEEATOES  '37 

her  face  was  graver  than  ever.  ("Good,"  he  thought;  "she 
does  n't  giggle.") 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Tanqueray,  talk  of  w'eezin',  you  should  hear  Aunt 
snore." 

"  I  have  heard  her.     In  my  dreams." 

Eose,  abashed  at  her  own  outburst,  remained  silent  for  sev- 
eral minutes.     Then  she  spoke  again. 

"  Do  you  think,  sir,  you  could  do  without  me  on  the  tenth  ?  " 

"  No.     I  don't  think  I  could  possibly  do  without  you." 

Her  face  clouded.     "  Kot  just  for  the  tenth  ?  " 

"  Why  the  tenth  ?  " 

"  The  Dog  Show,  sir.     And  Joey  's  in  it." 

"I   forgot." 

"  Miss  Kentish,  the  lady  up-stairs,  is  going  for  her  holiday 
on  the  tenth." 

He  saw  that  she  was  endeavouring  to  suggest  that  if  he 
could  n't  do  without  her,  he  and  he  alone  would  be  keeping  her 
from  the  superb  spectacle  of  the  Dog  Show  with  Joey  in  it. 

"  So  you  want  me  to  go  for  a  holiday,  too.     Is  that  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  if  it 's  not  inconvenient,  and  you  don't  really 
mind  Aunt •" 

"  Does  n't  she  want  to  see  Joey,  too  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  required  her,  sir." 

"  I  don't  require  her.  I  don't  require  anybody.  I  'm  going 
awav,  like  the  lady  up-stairs,  for  the  tenth.  I  shall  be  away 
all    day." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir."  She  glowed.  "  Do  you  think,  sir, 
Joey  '11  get  a  prize  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  bring  his  hair  on." 

"  It 's  coming.  I  've  put  paraffin  all  over  him.  You  'd  laugh 
if  you  were  to  see  Joey  now,  sir." 

Eose  herself  was  absolutely  serious. 

"  No,  Eose,  I  should  not  laugh.  I  would  n't  hurt  Joey's  feel- 
ings for  the  world." 

Tanqueray  had  his  face  hidden  under  Ihc  table  where  he  was 
setting  a  saucer  of  milk  for  Miuny,  the  cat. 


28  THECEEATOES 

Eose  rejoiced  in  their  communion.  "  He  's  quite  fond  of  you, 
sir/'  she  said. 

"  Of  course  he 's  fond  of  me,"  said  Tanqueray,  emerging, 
"  Why  should  n't  he  be  ?  " 

"  Well,  Minny  does  n't  take  to  everybody," 

"  I  am  more  than  honoured  that  he  should  take  to  me." 
•    Eose  accepted  that  statement  with  incorruptible  gravity.     It 
was  the  fifth  day,  and  she  had  not  laughed  yet. 

But  on  the  seventh  day  he  met  her  on  the  stairs  going  to  her 
room.  She  carried  a  lilac  gown  over  her  arm  and  a  large  hat  in 
her  hand.     She  was  smiling  at  the  hat.     He  smiled  at  her. 

"  A  new  gown  for  the  Eose  Show  ?  " 

"  The  Dog  Show,  sir."     She  stood  by  to  let  him  pass. 

"  It 's  the  same  thing.     I  say,  what  a  howling  swell  you  '11  be." 

At  that  Eose  laughed   (at  last  he  had  made  her). 

She  ran  up-stairs;  and  through  a  door  ajar,  he  heard  her 
singing  in  her  own  room. 


Ill 

IN  Tanqueray's  memorandum-book  for  nineteen  hundred  and 
two  there  stands  this  note :  "  June  10th,  Kose  Show.  Ke- 
member  to  take  a  holiday." 

Eose,  he  knew,  was  counting  the  days  till  the  tenth. 

About  a  fortnight  before  the  tenth,  Tanqueray  was  in  bed, 
ill.  He  had  caught  a  cold  by  walking  furiously,  and  then  lying 
out  on  the  grass  in  the  chill  of  the  May  evening.  There  was 
a  chance,  Eose  said,  of  its  turning  to  influenza  and  bronchitis, 
and  it  did. 

He  was  so  bad  that  Mrs.  Eldred  dragged  herself  up-stairs 
to  look  at  him. 

"  Bed 's  the  best  place,  sir,  for  you,"  she  said.  "  So  just 
you  lie  quiet  'ere,  sir,  and  Eose  '11  look  after  you.  And  if 
there 's  anything  you  fancy,  sir,  you  tell  Eose,  and  I  '11  make 
it  you." 

There  was  nothing  that  he  fancied  but  to  lie  still  there  and 
look  at  Eose  when,  in  a  spare  hour,  she  sat  by  his  window, 
sewing.  Bad  as  he  was,  he  was  not  so  far  gone  as  to  be  ever 
oblivious  of  her  presence.  Even  at  his  worst,  one  night  when 
he  had  had  a  touch  of  fever,  he  was  aware  of  her  wandering  in 
and  out  of  his  room,  hanging  over  him  with  a  thermometer, 
and  sitting  by  his  bedside.  When  he  flung  the  clothes  off  she 
was  there  to  cover  him ;  when  his  pillow  grew  hot  she  turned  it ; 
when  he  cried  out  with  thirst  she  gave  him  a  cool  drink. 

In  the  morning  she  was  pale  and  heavy-eyed;  her  hair  was 
all  unsleeked,  and  its  round  coils  were  flattened  at  the  back. 
She  had  lain  down  on  her  bed,  dressed,  for  five  minutes  at  a 
time,  but  she  had  not  closed  her  eyes  or  her  ears  all  night. 

In  a  week  he  was  well  enough  to  enjoy  being  nursed.  He  was 
now  exquisitely  sensitive  to  the  touch  of  her  hands,  and  to  tlie 
nearness  of  her  breathing  mouth  as  her  face  bent  over  him, 

29 


30  THE     CKEATOES 

tender,  absorbed,  and  superlatively  grave.  What  he  liked  best 
of  all  was  to  hold  out  his  weak  hands  to  be  washed  and  dried 
by  hers;  that,  and  having  his  hair  brushed. 

He  could  talk  to  her  now  without  coughing.     Thus  — 

"  I  say,  what  a  bother  I  am  to  you." 

Eose  had  taken  away  the  basin  and  towels,  and  was  arranging 
his  hair  according  to  her  own  fancy.  And  Eose's  fancy  was  to 
part  it  very  much  on  one  side,  and  brush  it  back  in  a  curl  off 
his  forehead.  It  gave  him  a  faint  resemblance  to  Mr.  Eobin- 
son,  the  elegant  young  draper  in  the  High  Street,  whom  she 
knew. 

"  There 's  nothing  I  like  so  much,"  said  she,  "  as  tucking 
people  up  in  bed  and  'aving  them  lie  there  and  nursing  'em. 
Give  me  anybody  ill,  and  anybody  'elpless,  and  me  lookin'  after 
'em,  and  I  'm  happy." 

"  And  the  longer  I  lie  here,  Eose,  the  happier  you  '11  be  ?  " 

"  Yes.     But  I  want  you  to  get  well,  too,  sir." 

"  Because  you  're  so  unselfish." 

"  Oh  no.     There  is  n't  anybody  selfisher  than  me." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Tanqueray,  "  that 's  why  I  don't  get  well." 

Eose  had  a  whole  afternoon  to  spare  that  day.  She  spent 
it  turning  out  his  drawers  and  finding  all  the  things  there  were 
to  mend  there.  She  was  sitting  by  his  bed  when,  looking  up 
from  her  mending,  she  saw  his  eyes  fixed  on  her. 

"  I   don't  irritate  you,   sittin'  here,   do   I,   sir  ? " 

"  Irritate  me  ?     What  do  you  think  I  'm  made  of  ?  " 

Eose  meditated  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"  Brains,  sir,"  said  she. 

"  So  you  think  you  know  a  man  of  brains  when  you  see  him, 
do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  were  you,  Eose,  before  you  came  here  ?  " 

"  I  was  nurse  in  a  gentleman's  family.  I  took  care  of  the 
baby." 

"Did  you  like  taking  care  of  the  baby?" 

"  Yes.'' 

Eose  blushed  profoundly  and  turned  away.     He  wondered  why. 


THECREATOES  31 

"  I  had  a  bad  dream  last  night,"  said  Tanqueray.  "  I  dreamt 
that  your  aunt  got  into  this  room  and  could  n't  get  out  again. 
I  'm  afraid  of  your  aunt." 

"  I  dare  say,  sir.     Aunt  is  so  very  'uge." 

Eose  dropped  her  g's  and,  when  deeply  moved,  her  aitches; 
but  he  did  not  mind.  If  it  had  to  be  done,  it  could  n't  be  done 
more  prettily. 

"  Eose,  do  you  know  when  I  'm  delirious  and  when  I  'm 
not?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     You  see,  I  take  your  temperature." 

"  It  must  be  up  now  to  a  hundred  and  eighty.  You  must  n't 
be  alarmed  at  anything  I  say.     I  'm  not  responsible." 

"  No,  sir."     She  rose  and  gravely  took  his  temperature. 

"  Are  n't  you  afraid  of  my  biting  the  bulb  off,  and  the  quick- 
silver flying  down  my  throat,  and  running  about  inside  me  for 
ever  and  ever?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  be  afraid  of  anything." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  of  many  things,  and  I  would  never  be  afraid 
of  you,  sir." 

"Not  if   I  went  mad,  Eose?     Eaving?" 

"  No.  Not  if  you  went  mad.  Not  if  you  was  to  strike  me, 
I  would  n't."  She  paused.  "  Not  so  long  as  I  knew  you  was 
reelly  mad,  and  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  me." 

"  I  would  n't  hurt  you  for  the  world." 

He  sighed  deeply  and  closed  his  eyes. 

That  evening,  when  she  was  giving  him  his  medicine,  he 
noticed  that  her  eyelids  were  red  and  her  eyes  gleaming. 

"  You  've  been  crying.     What 's  made  you  cry  ?  " 

Eose  did  not  answer. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Miss  Kentish  keeps  on  callin'  and  callin'  me.  And  she 
scolds  me  something  awful  when  I  don't  come." 

"  Give  my  compliments  to  Miss  Kentish,  Eose,  and  tell  her 
she 's  a  beast." 

"  I  'ave  told  her  that  if  it  was  she  that  was  ill  I  'd  nurse  her 
just  the  same  and  be  glad  to  do  it." 


3^  THECKEATORS 

"  You  consider  that  equivalent  to  calling  her  a  beast,  do 
you  ?  " 

Rose  said,  "  Well "  It  was  a  little  word  she  used  fre- 
quently. 

"  Well,  I  'm  sorry  you  think  I  'm  a  beast." 

Rose's  face  had  a  scared  look.  She  could  not  follow  him, 
and  that  frightened  her.  It  is  always  terrifying  to  be  left 
behind.     So  he  spared  her. 

"  Why  would  you  be  glad  to  nurse  Miss  Kentish  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Rose,  "  I  like  taking  care  of  people." 

"  Do  you  like  taking  care  of  me  ?  " 

Rose  was  silent  again.  She  turned  suddenly  away.  It  was 
the  second  time  she  had  done  this,  and  again  he  wondered  why. 

By  the  eighth  day  Tanqueray  was  strong  enough  to  wash  his 
own  hands  and  brush  his  own  hair.  On  the  ninth  the  doctor 
and  Rose  agreed  that  he  might  sit  up  for  an  hour  or  two  in  his 
chair  by  the  window.  On  the  eleventh  he  came  down-stairs  for 
dinner.  On  the  thirteenth  Rose  had  nothing  more  to  do  for 
him  but  to  bring  him  his  meals  and  give  him  his  medicine, 
which  he  would  otherwise  have  forgotten. 

At  bed-time,  therefore,  he  had  two  sovereigns  ready  for  her 
in  an  envelope.  Rose  refused  obstinately  to  take  them;  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  sovereigns. 

"  No,  sir,  I  could  n't,"  she  reiterated. 

But  when  he  pressed  them  on  her  she  began  to  cry. 

And  that  left  him  wondering  more. 


IV 

ON"  the  fourteenth  day,  Tanqueray,  completely  recovered, 
went  out  for  a  walk.  And  the  first  thing  he  did  when 
he  got  back  was  to  look  at  his  note-book  to  see  what  day  of 
the  month  it  was. 

It  was  the  tenth,  the  tenth  of  June,  the  day  of  the  Dog  Show. 
And  the  memorandum  stared  him  in  the  face :  "  Eose  Show. 
Eemember  to  take  a  holiday." 

He  looked  in  the  paper.  The  show  began  at  ten.  And  here 
he  was  at  half-past  one.  And  here  was  Eose,  in  her  old  green 
and  brown,  bringing  in  his  luncheon. 

"  Eose,"  he  said  severely,  "  why  are  you  not  at  the  Eose 
Show?" 

Eose  lowered  her  eyes.     "  I  did  n't  want  to  go,  sir." 

"  How  about  the  new  gown  ?  " 
(He  remembered  it.) 

"  That  don't  matter.     Aunt 's  gone  instead  of  me." 

"  Wearing  it  ?  She  could  n't.  Get  into  it  at  once,  and  leave 
that  confounded  cloth  alone  and  go.     You've  plenty  of  time." 

She  repeated  that  she  did  not  want  to  go,  and  went  on  laying 
the  cloth. 

"Why  not?"  said  he. 

"  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  've  given  up  that  Dog  Show  —  with 
Joey  in  it  —  for  me  ?  " 

"  Joey  is  n't  in  it ;  and  I  'd  rather  be  here  looking  after  you." 

"  I  won't  be  looked  after.  I  insist  on  your  going.  Do  you 
hear  ?  " 

"Yes,    sir,    I    hear   you." 

"  And  you  're  going  ?  " 

"  No,  sir."     She  meditated  with  licr  head  a  little  on  one  side : 

33 


34  THE     CEEATOES 

a  way  she  had.  "  I  've  got  a  headache,  and  —  and  —  and  I  don't 
want  to  go  and  see  them  other  dogs,  sir." 

"  Oh,  that 's  it,  is  it?     A  feeling  for  Joey  ?  " 

But  by  the  turn  of  head  he  knew  it  was  n't.  Eose  was  lying, 
the  little  minx. 

"  But  you  must  go  somewhere.  You  sliall  go  somewhere. 
You  shall  go  —  I  say,  supposing  you  go  for  a  drive  with  me  ?  " 

"  You  must  n't  take  me  for  drives,  sir." 

"Mustn't  I?" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  give  me  drives  —  or  —  or  anything." 

"  I  see.  You  are  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  for  me,  and  I  'm 
not  to  be  allowed  to  do  anything  for  you." 

She  placed  his  chair  for  him  in  silence,  and  as  he  seated  him- 
self he  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"  Do  you  want  to  please  me,  Eose  ?  " 

Her  face  was  lirm  as  she  looked  at  him.  It  was  as  if  she  held 
him  in  check  by  the  indomitable  set  of  her  chin,  and  the  steady 
light  of  her  eyes.  (Where  should  he  be  if  Eose  were  to  let 
herself  go?) 

Her  mouth  trembled,  it  protested  against  these  austerities  and 
decisions.  It  told  him  dumbly  that  she  did  want,  very  much, 
to  please  him;  but  that  she  knew  her  place. 

Did  she  ?     Did  she  indeed  know  her  place  ?     Did  he  know  it  ? 

"  You  're  right,  Eose.  That  is  n't  the  way  I  ought  to  have 
put  it.  Will  you  do  me  the  honour  of  going  for  a  drive  with 
me?  " 

She  looked  down,  troubled  and  uncertain. 

"  It  can  be  done,  Eose,"  he  said,  answering  her  thoughts. 
"  It  can  be  done.     The  only  thing  is,  would  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  would  like  it  very  much." 

"  Can  you  be  ready  by  three  o'clock  ?  " 

At  three  she  was  ready. 

She  wore  the  lilac  gown  she  had  bought  for  the  Show,  and 
the  hat.     It  had  red  roses  in  it. 

He  did  not  like  her  gown.  It  was  trimmed  with  coarse  lace, 
and  he  could  not  bear  to  see  her  in  anything  that  was  not  fine. 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  K  S  35 

"  Is  anything  wrong  with  my  hair  ?  "  said  Rose. 

"  No,  nothing 's  wrong  with  your  hair,  but  I  think  I  like 
you  better  in  the  green  and  brown " 

"  That 's  only  for  every  day." 

"  Then  I  shall  like  you  better  every  day." 

"  Why  do  you  like  my  green  and  brown  dress  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  again  and  suddenly  he  knew  why. 

"  Because  you  had  it  on  when  I  first  saw  you.  I  say,  would 
you  mind  awfully  putting  it  on  instead  of  that  thing  ?  " 

She  did  mind,  awfully;  but  she  went  and  put  it  on.  And 
still  there  was  something  wrong  with  her.  It  was  her  hat.  It 
did  not  go  with  the  green  and  brown.  But  he  felt  that  he  would 
be  a  brute  to  ask  her  to  take  that  off,  too. 

They  drove  to  Hendon  and  back.  They  had  tea  at  "Jack 
Straw's  Castle."  (Rose's  face  surrendered  to  that  ecstasy.) 
And  then  they  strolled  over  the  West  Heath  and  found  a  hollow 
where  Rose  sat  down  under  a  birch-tree  and  Tanqueray  stretched 
himself  at  her  feet. 

"  Rose,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  do  you  know  what  a  wood-nymph 
is?" 

"  Well,"  said  Rose,  "  I  suppose  it 's  some  sort  of  a  little 
animal." 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  little  animal.     A  delightful  little  animal." 

"  Can  you  catch  it  and  stroke  it  ?  " 

"  No.  If  you  tried  it  would  run  away.  Besides,  you  're  not 
allowed  to  catch  it,  or  to  stroke  it.  The  wood-nymph  is  very 
strictly  preserved."  , 

Rose  smiled ;  for  though  she  did  not  know  what  a  wood-nymph 
was,  she  knew  that  Mr.  Tanqueray  was  looking  at  her  all  the 
time. 

"  The  wood-nymphs  always  dress  in  green  and  brown." 

"Like  me?" 

"Like  you.  Only  they  don't  wear  boots"  (Rose  hid  her 
boots),  "nor  yet  collars." 

"  You  would  n't  like  to  see  me  without  a  collar." 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  you  without  that  hat." 

3 


36  THE     CREATOKS 

Any  difficulty  in  taking  Eose  about  with  him  would  lie  in 
Eose's  hat.  He  could  not  say  what  was  wrong  with  it  except 
that  the  roses  in  it  were  too  red  and  gay  for  Eose's  gravity. 

"  Would  you  mind  taking  it  off  ?  " 

She  took  it  off  and  put  it  in  her  lap.  Surrendered  as  she 
was,  she  could  not  disobey.     The  eternal  spell  was  on  her. 

Tanqueray  removed  her  hat  gently  and  hid  it  behind  him. 
He  laid  his  hands  in  her  lap.  It  was  deep  delight  to  touch  her 
She  covered  his  hands  with  hers.  That  was  all  he  asked  of  her 
and  all  she  thought  of  giving. 

On  all  occasions  which  she  was  prepared  for,  Eose  was  the 
soul  of  propriety  and  reserve.  But  this,  the  great  occasion,  had 
come  upon  her  unaware,  and  Nature  had  her  will  of  her. 
Through  Eose  she  sent  out  the  sign  and  signal  that  he  waited 
for.  And  Eose  became  the  vehicle  of  that  love  which  Nature 
fosters  and  protects ;  it  was  visible  and  tangible,  in  her  eyes,  and 
in  her  rosy  face  and  in  the  naif  movements  of  her  hands. 

Sudden  and  swift  and  fierce  his  passion  came  upon  him,  but 
he  only  lay  there  at  her  feet,  holding  her  hands,  and  gazing  into 
her  face,  dumb,  like  any  lover  of  her  class. 

Then  Eose  lifted  her  hands  from  his  and  spoke. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  hat  ?  " 

In  that  moment  he  had  turned  and  sat  on  it. 

Deliberately,  yet  impulsively,  and  without  a  twinge  of  re- 
morse, he  had  sat  on  it.     But  not  so  that  Eose  could  see  him. 

"I  have  n't  done  anything  with  it,"  said  he,  "  I  could  n't  do 
anything  with  a  hat  like  that." 

"  You  've  'idden  it  somewhere." 

He  got  up  slowly,  feigning  a  search,  and  produced  what  a 
minute  ago  had  been  Eose's  hat- 
It  was  an  absurd  thing  of  wire  and  net,  Eose's  hat,  and  it 
had  collapsed  irreparably. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  if  you  have  n't  gone  and  sat  on  it." 

"  It  looks  as  if  I  had.     Can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Well  —  if  it  was  an  accident." 

He  looked  down  upon  her  tenderly. 


THE     CREATORS  37 

"  No,  Rose,  it  was  not  an  accident.  I  could  n't  bear  that 
hat." 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  arm  and  raised  her  to  her  feet. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  the  only  thing  we  can  do  is  to  go 
and  get  another  one." 

They  went  slowly  back,  she  shamefaced  and  bareheaded,  he 
leading  her  by  the  arm  till  they  found  themselves  in  Heath 
Street  outside  a  magnificent  hat-shop. 

Chance  took  him  there,  for  Rose,  interrogated  on  the  subject 
of  hat-shops,  was  obstinately  reticent. 

But  here,  in  this  temple,  in  its  wonderful  window,  before  a 
curtain,  on  a  stage,  like  actors  in  a  gay  drama,  he  saw  hats ; 
black  hats  and  white  hats;  green  and  blue  and  rose-coloured 
hats;  hats  of  all  shapes  and  sizes;  airily  perched;  laid  upon 
velvet;  veiled  and  unveiled;  befeathered  and  beflowered.  Hats 
of  a  beauty  and  a  splendour  before  which  Rose  had  stood  many 
a  time  in  awful  contemplation,  and  had  hurried  past  with  eyes 
averted,  leaving  behind  her  the  impermissible  dream. 

And  now  she  had  a  thousand  scruples  about  entering.  He 
had  hit,  she  said,  on  the  most  expensive  shop  in  Hampstead. 
Miss  Kentish  would  n't  think  of  buying  a  hat  there.  No,  she 
would  n't  have  it.  He  must  please,  please,  Mr,  Tanqueray,  let 
her  buy  herself  a  plain  straw  and  trim  it. 

But  he  seized  her  by  the  arm  and  drew  her  in.  And  once 
in  there  was  no  more  use  resisting,  it  only  made  her  look 
foolish. 

Reality  with  its  harsh  conditions  had  vanished  for  a  moment. 
It  was  like  a  funny  dream  to  be  there,  in  Madame  Rodier's  shop, 
with  Mr.  Tanqueray  looking  at  her  as  she  tried  on  innumerable 
hats,  and  Madame  herself,  serving  her,  putting  the  hats  on  the 
right  way,  and  turning  her  round  and  round  so  that  Mr.  Tan- 
queray could  observe  the  effect  from  every  side  of  her. 

Madame  talked  all  the  time  to  Mr.  Tanqueray  and  ignored 
Rose. 

Rose  had  a  mortal  longing  for  a  rose-coloured  hat,  and  Madame 
would  n't  let  her  have  it.     Madame,  who  understood  Mr.  Tan- 


38  THECEEATOES 

queray's  thoughts  better  than  if  he  had  expressed  them,  insisted 
on  a  plain  blaclv  hat  with  a  black  feather. 

"  That 's  madame's  hat,  sir,"  said  Madame.  "  We  must  keep 
her  very  simple." 

"  We  must,"  said  Tanqueray,  with  fervour.  He  thought  he 
had  never  seen  anything  so  enchanting  in  its  simplicity  as 
Eose's  face  under  the  broad  black  brim  with  its  sweeping  feather. 

Eose  had  to  wear  the  hat  going  home.  Tanqueray  carried 
the  old  one  in  a  paper  parcel. 

At  the  gate  of  the  corner  house  he  paused  and  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"  We  've  half-an-hour  yet  before  we  need  go  in.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

He  led  her  through  the  willows,  and  up  the  green  slope  oppo- 
site the  house.  There  was  a  bench  on  the  top,  and  he  made 
her  sit  on  it  beside  him. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  you  think  that  when  we  go  in  I  shall 
let  you  wait  on  me,  and  it  '11  be  just  the  same  as  it  was  be- 
fore?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     Just  the  same." 

"  It  won't,  Eose,  it  can't.  You  may  wait  on  me  to-night,  but 
I  shall  go  away  to-morrow." 

She  turned  her  face  to  him,  it  was  dumb  with  its  trouble. 

"  Oh  no  —  no,  sir  —  don't  go  away." 

"  I  must.  But  before  I  go,  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  '11  be 
my  wife " 

The  hands  she  held  clasped  in  her  lap  gripped  each  other 
tight.     Her  mouth  was  set. 

"  I  'm  asking  you  now,  Eose.  To  be  my  wife.  My  wife,"  he 
repeated  fiercely,  as  if  he  repelled  with  violence  a  contrary 
suggestion. 

"  1  can't  be  your  wife,  sir,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because,"  she  said  simply,  "  I  'm  not  a  lady." 

At  that  Tanqueray  cried,  "  Ah,"  as  if  she  had  hurt  him. 

"  No,  sir,  I  'm  not,  and  you  must  n't  think  of  it." 


THECEEATORS  39 

"  I  shall  think  of  nothing  else,  and  talk  of  nothing  else,  until 
you  say  yes." 

She  shook  her  little  head ;  and  from  the  set  of  her  chin  he 
was  aware  of  the  extreme  decision  of  her  character. 

He  refrained  from  any  speech.  His  hand  sought  hers,  for 
he  remembered  how,  just  now,  she  had  unbent  at  the  holding 
of  her  hand. 

But  she  drew  it  gently  away. 

"  No,"  said  she.  "  I  look  at  it  sensible.  I  can  see  how  it  is. 
You  've  been  ill,  and  you  're  upset,  and  you  don't  know  what 
you  're  doin'  —  sir." 

"I  do  —  madam." 

She  smiled  and  drew  back  her  smile  as  she  had  drawn  back 
her  head.     She  was  all  for  withdrawal. 

Tanqueray  in  his  attempt  had  let  go  the  parcel  that  he  held. 
She  seized  it  in  a  practical,  business-like  manner  which  had  the 
perfect  touch  of  finality.  Then  she  rose  and  went  back  to  the 
house,  and  he  followed  her,  still  pleading,  still  protesting.  But 
Eose  made  herself  more  than  ever  deaf  and  dumb.  When  he 
held  the  gate  open  for  her  she  saw  her  advantage,  darted  in, 
and  vanished    (his  divinity!)    down  the  area  steps. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  her  little  garret,  and  there,  first  of  all, 
she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Her  face  was  strange  to  her 
under  the  black  hat  with  its  sweeping  feather.  She  shook  her 
head  severely  at  the  person  in  the  glass.  She  made  her  take 
off  the  hat  with  the  feather  and  put  it  by  with  that  veneration 
which  attends  the  disposal  of  a  best  hat.  The  other  one,  the 
one  with  the  roses,  she  patted  and  pulled  and  caressed  affec- 
tionately, till  she  had  got  it  back  into  something  of  the  shape 
it  had  been,  to  serve  for  second  best.  Then  she  wished  she 
had  left  it  as  it  was. 

She  loved  them  both,  the  new  one  because  he  had  given  it  her, 
and  the  old  one  because  he  had  sat  on  it. 

Finally  she  smoothed  her  hair  to  an  extreme  sleekness,  put 
on  a  clean  apron  and  went  down-stairs. 

In  the  evening  she   appeared  to   Tanqueray,   punctual   and 


40  THE     CEEATOES 

subservient,  wearing  the  same  air  of  reticence  and  distance 
with  which  she  had  waited  on  him  first.  He  was  to  see,  it 
seemed  to  say,  that  she  was  only  little  Eose  Eldred,  his  servant, 
to  whom  it  was  not  proper  that  he  should  speak. 

But  he  did  speak.  He  put  his  back  to  the  door  she  would 
have  escaped  by,  and  kept  her  prisoned  there,  utterly  in  his 
power. 

Eose,  thus  besieged,  delivered  her  ultimatum. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  you  take  a  year  to  think  it  over  sensible." 

"A  year?" 

"  A  year.  And  if  you  're  in  the  same  mind  then  as  you  are 
now,  p'raps  I  won't  say  no." 

"  A  year  ?     But  in  a  year  I  may  be  dead." 

"  You  come  to  me,"  said  Eose,  "  if  you  're  dyin'." 

"  And  you  '11  have  me  then  ?  "  he  said  savagely. 

"  Yes.     I  '11  'ave  you  then." 

But,  though  all  night  Tanqueray  by  turns  raged  and  lan- 
guished, it  was  Eose  who,  in  the  morning,  looked  about  to  die. 
Not  that  he  saw  her.  He  never  saw  her  all  that  day.  And  at 
evening  he  listened  in  vain  for  her  call  at  the  gate,  her  saluta- 
tion to  the  night :  "  Min  —  Min  —  Minny  !  Puss  —  Puss  — 
Puss ! " 

For  in  the  afternoon  Eose  left  the  house,  attended  by  her 
uncle,  who  carried  by  its  cord  her  little  trunk. 

In  her  going  forth  she  wore  a  clean  white  linen  gown.  She 
wore,  not  the  Hat,  nor  yet  the  sad  thing  that  Tanqueray  had 
sat  on,  but  a  little  black  bonnet,  close  as  a  cap,  with  a  black 
velvet  bow  in  the  front,  and  black  velvet  strings  tied  beneath 
her  chin. 

It  was  the  dress  she  had  worn  when  she  was  nurse  in  a  gen- 
tleman's family. 


V 

LATE  in  the  evening  of  that  day,  Tanqiieray,  as  he  sat 
in  miserable  meditation,  was  surprised  by  the  appear- 
ance of  Mrs.  Eldred.  She  held  in  her  hand  Rose's  hat,  the  hat 
he  had  given  her,  which  she  placed  before  him  on  the  table. 

"  You  '11  be  good  enough,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Eldred,  "  to  take 
that  back." 

"  Why  should  I  take  it  back  ?  "  he  replied,  with  that  artificial 
gaiety  which  had  been  his  habitual  defence  against  the  ap- 
proaches of  Mrs.  Eldred. 

"  Because,  it  was  all  very  well  for  you  to  offer  Rose  wot 
you  did,  sir,  and  she  'd  no  call  to  refuse  it.  But  a  'at 's  dif- 
ferent.    There  's  meanin',"  said  Mrs.  Eldred,  "  in  a  'at." 

Tanqueray  looked  at  the  hat. 

"Meaning?  If  you  knew  all  the  meaning  there  is  in  that 
hat,  Mrs.  Eldred,  you  'd  feel,  as  I  do,  that  you  knew  something. 
Half  the  poetry  that 's  been  written  has  less  meaning  in  it 
than  that  hat.  That  hat  fulfills  all  the  requirements  of  poetry. 
It  is  simple  —  extremely  simple  —  and  sensuous  and  passionate. 
Yes,  passionate.  It  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  a  hat  less 
afflicted  with  the  literary  taint.  It  stands,  as  I  see  it,  for  emo- 
tion reduced  to  its  last  and  purest  expression.  In  short,  Mrs. 
Eldred,  what  that  hat  does  n't  mean  is  n't  worth  meaning." 

"  If  you  'd  explain  your  meaning,  sir,  I  should  be  obliged." 

"  I  am  explaining  it.  My  meaning,  Mrs.  Eldred,  is  that  Rose 
wore  that  hat." 

"  I  know  she  did,  sir,  and  she  'ad  n't  ought  to  'ave  wore  it. 
I'm  only  askin'  you,  sir,  to  be  good  onougli  to  take  it  back." 

"Take  it  back?  But  whatever  should  I  do  with  it?  I  can't 
wear  it.  I  might  fall  down  and  worship  it,  but  —  No,  I  could  n't 
wear  it.     It  would  be  sacrilege." 

41 


42  THECREATOES 

That  took  Mrs.  Eldred's  breath  away,  so  that  she  sat  down 
and  wheezed. 

"  Does  Eose  not  know  what  that  hat  means  ? ''  he  asked. 

"No,  sir.  I'll  say  that  for  her.  She  didn't  think  till  I 
arst  her." 

"  Then  —  I  think  —  you  'd  perhaps  better  send  Eose  to  me." 

"Sir?" 

"  Please  send  her  to  me.     I  want  her." 

"  And  you  may  want  her,  sir.     Eose  is  n't  here." 

"  Not  here  ?     Where  is  she  ?     I  must  see  her." 

"  Eose  is  visitin'  in  the  country,  for  her  'ealth." 

"  Her  health  ?     Is  she  ill  ?  " 

Mrs.  Eldred  executed  a  vast  gesture  that  dismissed  Eose. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  repeated.     "  I  '11  go  down  and  see  her." 

"  You  will  not,  sir.     Her  uncle  would  n't  hear  of  it." 

"  But,  by  God !  he  shall  hear  of  it." 

He  rang  the  bell  with  fury. 

"  It 's  no  use  your  ringin',  sir.     Eldred  's  out." 

"  What  have  you  done  this  for  ?  " 

"  To  get  the  child  out  of  harm's  way,  sir.  We  're  not  blamin' 
you,  sir.     We  're  blamin'  'er." 

"Her?     Her?" 

"  Properly  speakin',  we  're  not  blamin'  anybody.  We  're  no 
great  ones  for  blamin',  me  and  Eldred.  But,  if  you  '11  excuse 
my  sayin'  so,  sir,  there  's  a  party  would  be  glad  of  your  rooms 
next  month,  a  party  takin'  the  'ole  'ouse,  and  if  you  would  be 

so  good  as  to  try  and  suit  yourself  elsewhere Though  we 

don't  want  to  put  you  to  no  inconvenience,  sir." 

It  was  extraordinary,  but  the  more  Mrs.  Eldred's  meaning 
was  offensive,  the  more  her  manner  was  polite.  He  reflected 
long  afterwards  that,  really,  a  lady,  in  such  difficult  circum- 
stances, could  hardly  have  acquitted  herself  better. 

"Oh,  is  tliat  all?  I'll  go.  But  you'll  give  me  Eose's  ad- 
dress." 

"  You  leave  Eose  alone,  sir.  Eose's  address  don't  concern 
you." 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S  43 

"  Eose's  address  concerns  me  a  good  deal  more  tlian  my  own, 
I  can  tell  you.     So  you  'd  better  give  it  me." 

"  Look  'ere,  sir.  Are  you  actin'  honest  by  that  girl,  or  are 
you  not  ?  " 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  asking  me  that  ?  " 

His  violence  made  her  immense  bulk  tremble;  but  her  soul 
stood  firm. 

"  I  dessay  you  mean  no  'arm,  sir.  But  we  can't  'ave  you 
playin'  with  'er.     That 's  all." 

"  Playing  with  her  ?     Playing  ?  " 

"  Yes,  playin'.  "Wot  else  is  it  ?  You  know,  sir,  you  ain't 
thinkin'  of  marryin'  'er." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  am  thinking  of." 

"You  'ave  n't  told  'er  that." 

"  I  have  told  her.     And,  by  Heaven !  I  '11  do  it." 

"  You  mean  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it.     What  else  should  I  mean  ?  " 

She  sat  meditating,  taking  it  in  slowly. 

"You'll  never  make  'er  'appy,  sir.     Nor  she  you." 

"  She  and  I  are  the  best  judges  of  that." 

"  'Ave  you  spoke  to  'er  ?  " 

"Yes.     I  told  you  I  had." 

"  Not  a  word  'ave  she  said  to  me." 

"AVell,  I  dare  say  she  wouldn't." 

"Sir?" 

"  She  would  n't  have  me." 

Mrs.  Eldred's  lower  lip  dropped,  and  she  stared  at  Tan- 
queray. 

"  She  would  n't  'ave  you  ?  Then,  depend  upon  it,  that 's  wot 
made  'er  ill." 

"HI?" 

"  Yes,  ill,  sir.     Frettin',  I  suppose." 

"  Where  's  that  address?     Give  it  me  at  once." 

"  iSTo,  sir,  I  darsen't  give  it  vou.  Eldred  'd  never  forgive 
me." 

"Haven't  I  told  you  I'm  going  to  marry  her?" 


44  THECEEATORS 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  as  'ow  Rose  '11  marry  you.  "WHien  she  's 
set,  she  's  set.  And  if  you  '11  forgive  my  saying  it,  sir.  Rose 
is  a  good  girl,  but  she 's  not  in  your  class,  sir,  and  it  is  n't 
suitable.     And  Rose,  I  dessay,  she  's  'ad  the  sense  to  see  it  so." 

"  She  's  got  to  see  it  as  I  see  it.     That  address  ?  " 

Mrs,  Eldred  rose  heavily.     She  still  trembled. 

"  You  'd  best  speak  to  her  uncle.  'E  '11  give  it  you  if  'e 
approves.     And  if  'e  does  n't  'e  won't." 

He  stormed.  But  he  was  impotent  before  this  monument  of 
middle-class  integrity. 

"^Vlien  will   Eldred  be  back?" 

"  We  're  expecting  of  'im  nine  o'clock  to-night." 

"  Mind  you  send  him  up  as  soon  as  he  comes  in." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

She  paused. 

"Wot  am  I  to  do  with  that  'at?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  at  the  hat.     He  laughed. 

"  You  can  leave  the  hat  with  me." 

She  moved  slowly  away.  "  Stop  !  "  he  cried ;  "  have  you  got 
such  a  thing  as  a  band-box  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  might  'ave,  sir ;  if  I  could  lay  my  'and  on  it." 

"  Lay  your  hand  on  it,  then,  and  bring  it  to  me." 

She  brought  it.  An  enormous  band-box,  but  brown,  which 
was  a  good  colour.  He  lowered  the  hat  into  it  with  care  and 
shut  the  lid  on  it,  reverently,  as  if  he  were  committing  some 
sacred  emblem  to  its  shrine. 

He  sat  at  his  writing-table,  tried  to  work  and  accomplished 
nothing.     His  heart  waited  for  the  stroke  of  nine. 

At  nine  there  came  to  his  summons  the  little,  lean,  brown 
man,  Rose's  uncle.  Eldred,  who  was  a  groom,  was  attired  with 
excessive  horsiness.  He  refused  to  come  further  into  the  room 
than  its  threshold,  where  he  stood  at  attention,  austerely  servile, 
and  respectfully  despotic. 

The  interview  in  all  points  resembled  Tanqueray's  encounter 
with  Mrs.  Eldred;  except  that  the  little  groom,  who  knew  his 
world,  was  even  more  firmly  persuaded  that  the  gentleman  was 
playing  with  his  Rose. 


THBCEEATOES  45 

"  And  we  can't  'ave  that,  sir,"  said  Eldred, 

"  You  're  not  going  to  have  it." 

"  'No,  sir,  we  ain't,"  reiterated  Eldred.  "  We  can't  'ave  any 
such  goin's  on  'ere." 

"  Look  here  —  don't  be  an  idiot  —  it  is  n't  your  business,  you 
know,  to  interfere." 

"  Not  my  business  ?  Wlien  'er  father  left  'er  to  me  ?  I  should 
like  to  know  what  is  my  business,"  said  Mr.  Eldred  hotly. 

Tanqueray  saw  that  he  would  have  to  be  patient  with  him. 
"  Yes,  /  know.  That 's  all  right.  Don't  you  see,  Eldred,  I  'm 
going  to  marry  her." 

But  his  eagerness  woke  in  Eldred  a  ghastlier  doubt.  Eose's 
uncle  stood  firmer  than  ever,  not  turning  his  head,  but  casting 
at  Tanqueray  a  small,  sidelong  glance  of  suspicion. 

"  And  why  do  you  want  to  marry  her,  sir  ?  You  tell  me 
that." 

Tanqueray  saw. 

"  Because  I  want  her.  And  it 's  the  only  way  to  get  her.  Do 
you  need  me  to  tell  you  that  ?  " 

The  man  reddened.     "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"  You  beg  her  pardon,  you  mean." 

Eldred  was  silent.  He  had  been  hit  hard,  that  time.  Then 
he  spoke. 

"  Are  you  certain  sure  of  your  f eelin's,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  'm  certain  of  nothing  in  this  world  except  my  feelings." 

"Because"  (Eldred  was  slow  but  steady  and  indomitable 
in  coming  to  his  point),  "because  we  don't  want  'er  'eart  broke." 

"  You  're  breaking  it,  you  fool,  every  minute  you  stand  there. 
Give  me  her  address." 

In   the   end  he  gave   it. 

Down-stairs,  in  the  kitchen,  by  the  ashes  of  the  raked-out 
fire,  he  discussed  the  situation  with  his  wife. 

"Did  you  tell  him  plain,"  said  Mrs.  Eldred,  "that  we'd 
'ave  no  triflin'?  " 

"I  did." 

"  Did  you  tell  'im  that  if  'c  was  not  certain  sure  'e  wanted 
'er,  there  was  a  young  man  who  did  ?  " 


46  THECEEATOES 

Eldred  said  nothing  to  that  question.  He  lit  a  pipe  and 
began  to  smoke  it. 

"  Did  you  tell  'im,"  his  wife  persisted,  "  about  Mr.  Eobinson  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  n't,  old  girl." 

"  Well,  if  it  'ad  bin  me  I  should  have  said,  '  Mr.  Tanqueray, 
for  all  you  've  fam'ly  on  your  side  and  that,  we  're  not  so 
awful  anxious  for  Eose  to  marry  you.  We  'd  rather  'ave  a 
young  man  without  fam'ly,  in  a  good  line  o'  business  and  steady 
risin'.  And  we  know  of  such  as  would  give  'is  'ead  to  'ave  'er.' 
That 's  wot  I  should  'ave  said." 

"  I  dessay  you  would.  I  did  n't  say  it,  because  I  don't  want 
'im  to  'ave  'er.  That  I  don't.  And  if  'e  was  wantin'  to  cry 
off,  and  I  was  to  have  named  Mr.  Eobinson,  that  'd  'ave  bin 
the  very  thing  to  'ave  stirred  'im  up  to  gettin'  'er.  That 's  wot 
men  is,  missis,  and  women,  too,  all  of  'em  I  've  ever  set  eyes  on. 
Dorgs  wot  '11  leave  the  bone  you  give  'em,  to  fight  for  the  bone 
wot  another  dorg  'e  's  got.  Wot  do  you  say  to  that,  Mrs.  Smoker, 
old  girl  ?  " 

Mrs.  Smoker,  the  Aberdeen,  pricked  up  her  ears  and  smiled, 
with  her  eyes  only,  after  the  manner  of  her  breed. 

"  Anyhow,"  said  Mrs.  Eldred,  "  you  let  'im  see  as  'ow  we 
wasn't  any  way  snatchin'  at  'im?" 

"  I  did,  missis." 


VI 

MR.  ELDEED,  groom  and  dog  fancier,  profoundly  musing 
upon  human  nature  and  illuminated  by  his  study  of  the 
lower  animals,  had  hit  upon  a  truth.  Once  let  him  know  that 
another  man  desired  to  take  Eose  away  from  him  and  Mr.  Tan- 
queray  would  be  ten  times  more  desirous  to  have  her.  What 
Mr.  Eldred  did  not  see  was  the  effect  upon  Mr.  Tanqueray  of 
Eose's  taking  herself  away,  or  he  would  not  have  connived  at 
her  departure.  "Out  o'  sight,  out  o'  mind,"  said  Mr.  Eldred, 
arguing  again  from  his  experience  of  the  lower  animals. 

But  with  Tanqueray,  as  with  all  creatures  of  powerful  imagi- 
nation, to  be  out  of  sight  was  to  be  perpetually  in  mind. 

All  night,  in  this  region  of  the  mind,  Eose's  image  did  battle 
with  Jane's  image  and  overcame  it. 

It  was  not  only  that  Jane's  charm  had  no  promise  for  his 
senses.  She  was  unfit  in  more  ways  than  one.  Jane  was  in 
love  with  him;  yet  her  attitude  implied  resistance  rather  than 
surrender.  Eose's  resistance,  taking,  as  it  did,  the  form  of 
flight,  was  her  confession  of  his  power.  Jane  held  her  ground; 
she  stood  erect.  Eose  bowed  before  him  like  a  flower  shaken 
by  the  wind.  He  loved  Eose  because  she  was  small  and  sweet 
and  subservient.  Jane  troubled  and  tormented  him.  He  re- 
volted against  the  tyranny  of  Jane. 

Jane  was  not  physically  obtrusive,  yet  there  were  moments 
when  her  presence  in  a  room  oppressed  him.  She  had  further 
that  disconcerting  quality  of  all  great  personalities,  the  power 
to  pursue  and  seize,  a  power  so  oblivious,  so  pure  from  all  inten- 
tion or  desire,  that  there  was  no  flattery  in  it  for  the  pursued. 
It  persisted  when  she  was  gone.  Neither  time  nor  space  re- 
moved her.  He  could  not  get  away  from  Jane.  If  he  allowed 
himself  to  think  of  her  he  could  not  think  of  anything  else. 

47 


48  THECEEATOKS 

But  he  judged  that  Eose's  minute  presence  in  his  memory  would 
not  be  disturbing  to  his  other  thoughts. 

His  imagination  could  play  tenderly  round  Eose.  Jane's 
imagination  challenged  his.  It  stood,  brandishing  its  flaming 
sword  before  the  gates  of  any  possible  paradise.  There  was 
something  in  Jane  that  matched  him,  and,  matching,  rang  defi- 
ance to  his  supremacy.  Jane  plucked  the  laurel  and  crowned 
herself.  Eose  bowed  her  pretty  head  and  let  him  crown  her. 
Laurel  crowns,  crowns  of  glory,  for  Jane.  The  crown  of  roses 
for  Eose. 

He  meant,  of  course,  the  wedding-wreath  and  the  wedding- 
ring.  His  conversation  with  the  Eldreds  had  shown  him  that 
marriage  had  not  entered  into  their  humble  contemplations; 
also  that  if  there  was  no  question  of  marriage,  there  could  be 
no  question  of  Eose. 

He  had  known  that  in  the  beginning,  he  had  known  it  from 
the  uncompromising  little  Eose  herself.  From  the  first  flower- 
ing of  his  passion  until  now,  he  had  seen  marriage  as  the  sole 
means  to  its  inevitable  end.  Tanqueray  had  his  faults,  but  it 
was  not  in  him  to  bring  the  creature  he  loved  to  suffering  and 
dishonour.  And  the  alternative,  in  Eose's  case,  was  not  dis- 
honour, but  frustration,  which  meant  suffering  for  them  both. 
He  would  have  to  give  Eose  up  unless  he  married  her. 

At  the  moment,  and  the  moment's  vision  was  enough  for 
him,  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  marry  her.  He 
wanted  to  obtain  her  at  once  and  to  keep  her  for  ever.  She 
was  not  a  lady  and  she  knew  it ;  but  she  had  a  gentleness,  a 
fineness  of  the  heart  which  was  the  secret  of  her  unpremeditated 
charm.  Without  it  Eose  might  have  been  as  pretty  as  she  pleased, 
she  would  not  have  pleased  Tanqueray.  He  could  withstand  any 
manifestly  unspiritual  appeal,  restrained  by  his  own  fineness  and 
an  invincible  disdain.  Therefore,  when  the  divine  folly  fell 
upon  him,  he  was  like  a  thing  fresh  from  the  last  touch  of 
the  creator,  every  sense  in  him  unworn  and  delicate  and  alert. 

And  Eose  had  come  to  him  when  the  madness  of  the  quest 
was  on  him,  a  madness  so  strong  that  it  overcame  his  perception 
of  her  social  lapses.     It  was  impossible  to  be  unaware  of  some 


THECREATOKS  49 

of  thera,  of  certain  phrases,  of  the  sudden  wild  flight  of  her 
aspirates.  But  these  things  were  entangled  with  her  adorable 
gestures,  with  the  soft  ways  of  her  mouth,  with  her  look  when 
she  hung  about  him,  nursing  him ;  so  that  a  sane  judgment  was 
impossible. 

It  was  palpable,  too,  that  Rose  was  not  intellectual,  that  she 
was  not  even  half-educated.  But  Tanqueray  positively  disliked 
the  society  of  intellectual,  cultivated  women;  they  were  all  in- 
sipid after  Jane.  After  Jane,  he  did  not  need  intellectual  com- 
panionship in  his  wife.  He  would  still  have  Jane.  And  when 
he  was  tired  of  Jane  there  would,  no  doubt,  be  others ;  and  when 
he  was  tired  of  all  of  them,  there  was  himself. 

What  he  did  need  in  his  wife  was  the  obstinate,  dumb  devo- 
tion of  a  creature  that  had  no  life  apart  from  him;  a  creature 
so  small  that  in  clinging  it  would  hang  no  weight  on  his  heart. 
And  he  had  found  it  in  Rose. 

Wliy  should  he  not  marry  her? 

She  was  now,  he  had  learned,  staying  with  her  former  mistress 
at  Fleet,  in  Hampshire. 

The  next  morning  he  took  a  suitable  train  down  to  Fleet, 
and  arrived,  carrying  the  band-box,  at  the  door  of  the  house 
where  Rose  was.  He  sat  a  long  time  in  the  hall  of  the  house 
with  the  band-box  on  his  knees.  He  did  not  mind  waiting. 
People  went  in  and  out  of  the  hall  and  looked  at  him;  and 
he  did  not  care.  He  gloried  in  the  society  of  the  sacred  band- 
box.    He  enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  his  own  eccentricity. 

At  last  he  was  shown  into  a  little  room  where  Rose  came  to 
him.  She  came  from  behind,  from  the  garden,  through  the 
French  window.  She  was  at  his  side  before  he  saw  her.  He 
felt  her  then,  he  felt  her  fear  of  him. 

He  turned.  "  Rose,"  he  said,  "  I  've  brought  you  the  moon 
in  a  band-box." 

"  Oh,"  said  Rose,  and  her  cry  had  a  thick,  sobbing  vibration 
in  it. 

He  put  his  arm  on  her  shoulder  and  drew  her  out  of  sight 
and  kissed  her,  and  she  was  not  afraid  of  him  any  more. 

"  Rose/'  he  said,  "  have  you  thought  it  over  ?  " 


50  THECREATOES 

"  Yes,  I  have.     Have  you  ?  " 

"  I  've  thought  of  nothing  else.'' 

"Sensible?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes." 

"  You  've  thought  of  how  I  have  n't  a  penny  and  never  shall 
have?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  how  I  'm  not  clever,  and  how  it  is  n't  a  bit  as  if  I  'd  any 
head  for  studyin'  and  that  ?  " 

"Yes,  Eose." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  how  I  'm  not  a  lady  ?  Not  what 
you  'd  call  a  lady  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  that,  and  so  he  kissed  her. 

"  And  how  you  'd  be  if  you  was  to  marry  some  one  who  was 
a  lady  ?     Have  you  thought  of  that  ?  " 

"I  have." 

"  Well  then,  it 's  this  way.  If  you  was  a  rich  man  I  would  n't 
marry  you."     She  paused. 

"  But  you  will,  because  I  'm  a  poor  one  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Thank  God  I  'm  poor." 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  she  yielded,  not  wholl}',  but  with  a 
shrinking  of  her  small  body,  and  a  soft,  shy  surrender  of  her 
lips. 

She  was  thinking,  "  If  he  married  a  lady  he  'd  have  to  spend 
ten  times  on  her  what  he  need  on  me." 

All  she  said  was,  "  There  are  things  I  can  do  for  you  that 
a  lady  could  n't." 

"  Oh  —  don't  —  don't !  "  he  cried.  That  was  the  one  way  she 
hurt  him. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  now  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  you  for  a  walk.     We  can't  stay  here." 

"  Can  you  wait  ?  " 

"  I  have  waited." 

She  ran  away  and  stayed  away  for  what  seemed  an  inter- 
minable time.     Then  somebody  opened   the  door  and   handed 


THECEEATORS  51 

Rose  in.  Somebody  kissed  her  where  she  stood  in  the  doorway, 
and  laughed  softly,  and  shut  the  door  upon  Rose  and  Tan- 
queray. 

Rose  stood  there  still.  "  Do  you  know  me  ?  "  said  she,  and 
laughed. 

Somebody  had  transformed  her,  had  made  her  slip  her  stiff 
white  gown  and  dressed  her  in  a  muslin  one  with  a  belt  that 
clipped  her,  showing  her  pretty  waist.  Somebody  had  taught 
her  how  to  wear  a  scarf  about  her  shoulders ;  and  somebody  had 
taken  off  that  odious  linen  collar  and  bared  the  white  column 
of  her  neck. 

"  She  made  me  put  it  on,"  said  Rose.  "  She  said  if  I  did  n't, 
I  could  n't  wear  the  hat/' 

Somebody,  Rose's  mistress,  had  been  in  Rose's  secret.  She 
knew  and  understood  his  great  poem  of  the  Hat. 

Rose  took  it  out  of  the  band-box  and  put  it  on.  Impossible 
to  say  whether  he  liked  her  better  with  it  or  without  it.  He 
thought  without ;  for  she  had  parted  her  hair  in  the  middle  and 
braided  it  at  the  back. 

"  Do  you  like  my  hair  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  do  it  like  that  before  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  wanted  to.     But  I  did  n't." 

"Wliy  not?" 

Rose  hid  her  face.  "  I  thought,"  said  she,  "  you  'd  notice, 
and  think  — and  think  I  was  after  you." 

Ko.  He  could  never  say  that  she  had  been  after  him,  that 
she  had  laid  a  lure.  ISTo  huntress  she.  But  she  had  found  him, 
the  hunted,  run  down  and  sick  in  his  dark  den.  And  she  had 
stooped  there  in  the  darkness,  and  tended  and  comforted  him. 

They  set  out. 

''  She  said  I  was  to  tell  you,"  said  Rose,  "  to  be  sure  and  take 
me  through  the  pine-woods  to  the  pond." 

How  well  that  lady  knew  the  setting  that  would  adorn  his 
Rose;  sunlight  and  shadow  that  made  her  glide  fawn-like  among 
the  tall  stems  of  the  trees.  Through  the  pine-woods  he  took 
her,  his  white  wood-nymph,  and  through  the  low  lands  covered 


53  THE     CEEATOKS 

with  bog  myrtle,  fragrant  under  her  feet.  Beyond  the  marsh 
they  found  a  sunny  hollow  in  the  sand  where  the  heath  touched 
the  pond.     The  brushwood  sheltered  them. 

Side  by  side  they  sat  and  took  their  fill  of  joy  in  gazing 
at  each  other,  absolutely  dumb. 

It  was  Tanqueray  who  broke  that  beautiful  silence.  He  had 
obtained  her.  He  had  had  his  way  and  must  have  it  to  the 
end.  He  loved  her ;  and  the  thing  beyond  all  things  that  pleased 
him  was  to  tease  and  torment  the  creatures  that  he  loved. 

"  Eose,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think  I  'm  good-looking  ?  " 

"  No.     Not  what  you  call  good-looking." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  I  call  good-looking  ?  " 

"  Well  —  me.     Don't  you  ?  ? 

"  You  're  a  woman.  Give  me  your  idea  of  a  really  handsome 
man." 

"  Well  —  do  you  know  Mr.  Eobinson  ?  " 

"  No.     I  do  not  know  Mr.  Eobinson." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  He  keeps  the  shop  in  the  High  Street  where 
you  get  your  'ankychiefs  and  collars.  You  bought  a  collar  off 
of  him  the  other  day.     He  told  me." 

"  By  Jove,  so  I  did.  Of  course  I  know  Mr.  Eobinson.  What 
about  him  ?  " 

"  Well  —  he^s  what  I  call  a  handsome  man." 

"  Oh."  He  paused.  "  Would  you  love  me  more  if  I  were 
as  handsome  as  Mr.  Eobinson  ?  " 

"  No.  Not  a  bit  more.  I  could  n't.  I  'd  love  you  just  the 
same  if  you  were  as  ugly  as  poor  Uncle.  There,  what  more  do 
you  want?  " 

"  What,  indeed  ?  Eose,  how  much  have  you  seen  of  Mr. 
Eobinson?" 

"  How  much  ?  Well  —  I  see  him  every  time  I  go  into  his 
shop.  And  every  Sunday  evening  when  I  go  to  church.  And 
sometimes  he  comes  and  has  supper  with  us.  'E  plays  and  'e 
sings  beautiful." 

"  The  devil  he  does !     Well,  did  he  ever  take  you  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Once  —  he  took  me  to  Madame  Tussaws ;  and  once  to  the 
Colonial  Exhibition;  and  once " 


THE     CREATORS  53 

"  You  minx.  That  '11  do.  Has  he  ever  given  you  any- 
thing?" 

"  He  gave  me  Joey." 

"  I  always  knew  there  was  something  wrong  about  that  dog." 

"  And  last  Christmas  he  gave  me  a  scented  sashy  from  the 
shop." 

"  Never  —  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Never  anything  else."  She  smiled  subtly.  "  I  would  n't 
let  'im." 

"  Well,  well.  And  I  suppose  you  consider  Mr.  Robinson  a 
better  dressed  man  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  always  a  beautiful  dresser.  He  makes  it  what 
you  might  call  'is  hobby." 

"  Of  course  Mr.  Robinson  wants  you  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Leastways  he  says  so." 

"  And  I  suppose  your  uncle  and  aunt  want  you  to  marry 
him  ?  " 

"  They  were  more  for  it  than  I  was." 

"  Rose  —  he  's  got  a  bigger  income  than  I  have." 

"  He  never  told  me  what  his  income  is." 

"  But  you  know  ?  '^ 

"  I  dare  say  Uncle  does." 

"  Better  dressed  —  decidedly  more  handsome " 

"  Well  —  he  is  that." 

"  A  bigger  income.  Rose,  do  you  want  Mr.  Robinson  to  be 
found  dead  in  his  shop  —  horribly  dead  —  among  the  collars 
and  the  handkerchiefs  —  spoiling  them,  and  —  not  —  look- 
ing —  handsome  —  any  more  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Tanqueray  !  " 

"  Then  don't  talk  about  him." 

He  turned  his  face  to  hers.  She  put  up  her  hands  and  drew 
his  head  down  into  the  hollow  of  her  breasts  that  were  w^arm 
with  the  sun  on  them. 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  "  if  you  stroke  my  hair  too  much  it  '11  come 
off,  like  Joey's.     Would  you  love  me  if  my  hair  came  off?  " 

She  kissed  his  hair. 

"  When  did  you  begin  to  love  me,  Rose  ?  " 


54  THECKEATORS 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  it  must  have  been  when  you  were 
ill." 

"  I  see.  When  I  was  bowled  over  on  my  back  and  could  n't 
struggle.     What  made  you  love  me  ?  " 

She  was  silent  a  long  time,  smiling  softly  to  herself. 

"  I  think  it  was  because  —  because  —  because  you  were  so 
kind  to  Joey." 

"  So  you  thought  I  would  be  kind  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  —  I  did  n't  think  at  all.     I  just " 

"  So  did  I,"  said  Tanqueray. 


VII 

IT  had  been  arranged  that  Eose  was  to  be  married  from  the 
house  of  her  mistress,  and  that  she  was  to  remain  there 
until  her  wedding-day.  There  were  so  many  things  to  be  seen 
to.  There  was  the  baby.  You  could  n't,  Eose  said,  play  fast 
and  loose  with  him.  Eose,  at  her  own  request,  had  come  to 
take  care  of  the  baby  for  a  month,  and  she  was  not  going  back 
on  that,  not  if  it  was  ever  so.  Then  there  were  all  the  things 
that  her  mistress,  Eose  said,  was  going  to  learn  her.  So  many 
things,  things  she  was  not  to  do,  things  she  was  not  to  say, 
things  she  was  on  no  account  to  wear.  Eose,  buying  her  trous- 
seau, was  not  to  be  trusted  alone  for  a  minute. 

It  had  been  put  to  Eose,  very  gently  by  her  mistress,  very 
gravely  by  her  master,  whether  she  would  really  be  happy  if 
she  married  this  eccentric  3'oung  gentleman  with  the  band-box. 
Was  it  not  possible  that  she  might  be  happier  with  some- 
body rather  less  eccentric?  And  Eose  replied  that  she 
knew  her  own  mind ;  that  she  could  n't  be  happy  at  all  with 
anybody  else,  and  that,  if  she  could,  she  'd  rather  be  unhappy 
with  Mr.  Tanqueray,  eccentricity,  band-box  and  all.     Whereas, 

if  he  was  to  be  unhappy  with  her,  now But,  when  it  came 

to  that,  they  had  n't  the  heart  to  tell  her  that  he  might,  and 
very  probably  would  be. 

If  Eose  knew  her  own  mind,  Tanqueray  knew  his.  The  pos- 
sibility of  being  unhappy  with  Eose  (he  had  considered  it)  was 
dim  compared  with  the  certainty  that  he  was  unhappy  without 
her.  To  be  deprived  of  the  sight  and  sound  of  her  for  six  days 
in  the  week,  to  go  down  to  Fleet,  like  the  butcher,  on  a  Sunday, 
and  find  her  rosy  and  bright-eyed  with  affection,  with  a  little 
passion  that  grew  like  his  own  with  delay,  that  grew  in  silence 
and  in  secret,  making  Eose,  every  Sunday,  more  admirably  sliy; 

55 


56  THECEEATOES 

to  be  with  her  for  two  hours,  and  then  to  be  torn  from  her  by  a 
train  he  had  to  catch;  all  this  kept  Tanqueray  in  an  excitement 
incompatible  with  discreet  reflection. 

Eose  would  not  name  a  day  before  the  fourteenth  of  July,  not 
if  it  was  ever  so.  He  adored  that  little  phrase  of  desperate  nega- 
tion. He  was  in  a  state  of  mind  to  accept  everything  that  Eose 
did  and  said  as  adorable.  Eose  had  strange  audacities,  strange 
embarrassments.  Dumbness  would  come  upon  Eose  in  mo- 
ments which  another  woman,  Jane  for  instance,  would  have 
winged  with  happy  words.  She  had  a  look  that  was  anything 
but  dumb,  a  look  of  innocent  tenderness,  which  in  another 
woman,  Jane  again,  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  rest  upon 
him  so  long.  He  loved  that  look.  In  her  very  lapses,  her  gentle 
elision  of  the  aitch,  he  found  a  foreign,  an  infantile,  a  pathetic 
charm. 

So  the  date  of  the  wedding  was  fixed  for  the  fourteenth. 

It  was  now  the  twelfth,  and  Tanqueray  had  not  yet  an- 
nounced his  engagement. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twelfth  two  letters  came  which  made 
him  aware  of  this  omission.  One  was  from  young  Arnott 
Nicholson,  who  wanted  to  know  when,  if  ever,  he  was  coming 
out  to  see  him.  The  other  was  from  Jane's  little  friend,  Laura 
Gunning,  reminding  him  that  the  twelfth  was  Jane's  birthday. 

He  had  forgotten. 

Yet  there  it  stood  in  his  memorandum-book,  entered  three 
months  ago,  lest  by  any  possibility  he  should  forget. 

How,  in  the  future,  was  he  going  to  manage  about  birthdays? 
Tor,  whenever  any  of  the  three  had  a  birthday,  they  all  celebrated 
it  together.  Last  time  it  had  been  Tanqueray's  birthday,  and 
they  had  made  a  day  of  it,  winding  up  with  supper  in  little 
Laura's  rooms.  Such  a  funny,  innocent  supper  that  began  with 
maccaroni,  and  ended,  he  remembered,  with  bread  and  jam. 
Before  that,  it  had  been  Laura's  birthday,  and  Tanqueray  had 
taken  them  all  to  the  play.  But  on  Jane's  birthday  (and  on 
other  days,  their  days)  it  was  their  custom  to  take  the  train  into 
the  country,  to  tramp  the  great  white  roads,  to  loiter  in  the 
fields,  to  climb  the  hillsides  and  lie  there,  prone,  with  slackened 


THECEEATOES  57 

limbs,  utterly  content  with  the  world,  with  each  other  and  them- 
selves. As  he  thought  of  those  days,  their  days,  he  had  a  sud- 
den vision  of  his  marriage-day  as  a  dividing  line,  sundering  him 
from  them,  their  interests  and  their  activities.  He  could  not 
think  of  Eose  as  making  one  of  that  company. 

Laura  now  inquired  innocently  what  his  plans  were  for  that 
day.  Would  he  meet  them  (she  meant,  would  he  meet  her  and 
Jane  Holland)  at  Marylebone,  by  the  entrance,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
and  go  with  them  somewhere  into  the  country  ?, 

Would  he?  He  thought  about  it  for  five  minutes,  and  de- 
cided that  on  the  whole  he  would  rather  go  than  not.  He  was 
restless  in  these  days  before  his  wedding.  He  could  not  stand 
the  solitude  of  this  house  where  Eose  had  been  and  was  not. 
And  he  wanted  to  see  Jane  Holland  again  and  make  it  right  with 
her.     He  was  aware  that  in  many  ways  he  had  made  it  wrong. 

He  would  have  to  tell  her.  He  would  have  to  tell  Nicholson. 
And  Nicholson,  why,  of  course,  Nicholson  would  have  to  see  him 
through.     He  must  go  to  Nicholson  at  once. 

Nicholson  lived  at  Wendover.  There  was  a  train  from  Mary- 
lebone about  eleven.  It  was  possible  to  combine  a  festival  for 
Jane  with  a  descent  upon  Nicky. 

By  the  entrance,  at  eleven,  Laura  Gunning  waited  for  him, 
punctually  observant  of  the  hour.  Beyond,  on  the  pavement 
before  the  station,  he  saw  the  tall  figure  of  another  woman.  It 
was  Nina  Lempriere.  She  was  not  waiting  —  Nina  never 
waited  —  but  striding  impatiently  up  and  down.  He  would 
have  to  reckon,  then,  with  Nina  Lempriere,  too.  He  was  glad 
that  Jane  was  with  her. 

Little  Laura,  holding  herself  very  straight,  greeted  him  with 
her  funny  smile,  a  smile  that  was  hardly  more  than  a  tremor 
of  her  white  lips.  Laura  Gunning,  at  twenty-seven,  had  still 
in  some  of  her  moods  the  manner  of  a  child.  She  was  now  like 
a  seven-year-old  made  shy  and  serious  by  profound  excitement. 
She  was  a  very  small  woman  and  she  had  a  small  face,  with 
diminutive  features  in  excessively  low  relief,  a  face  shadowless 
as  a  child's.  Everything  about  Laura  Gunning  was  small  and 
finished  with  an  innocent  perfection.     She  had   a   small   and 


58  THECREATOES 

charming  talent  for  short  stories,  little  novels,  perfect  within 
the  limits  of  their  kind. 

Tanqueray  laid  before  her  his  Wendover  scheme.  Laura  said 
he  must  ask  Jane.  It  was  Jane's  birthday.  Jane,  being  asked, 
said,  No,  she  did  n't  mind  where  they  went,  provided  they  went 
somewhere.  She  supposed  there  was  a  gate  they  could  sit  on, 
while  Tanqueray  called  on  Nicky.  Tanqueray  said  he  thought 
he  saw  Nicky  letting  her  sit  on  a  gate.  Considering  that  Nicky 
had  been  pestering  him  for  the  last  six  months  (he  had)  to 
bring  her  out  to  have  tea  with  him  on  one  of  their  days. 

"  And  we  've  never  been,"  said  he. 

Jane  let  it  pass.  But  Nina  Lempriere,  as  Tanqueray  well 
knew,  had  a  devil  in  her,  Nina's  eyes  had  the  trick  of  ignor- 
ing your  position  in  the  space  they  traversed,  which  made  it  the 
more  disconcerting  when  they  came  back  and  tixed  you  with 
their  curious,  hooded  stare.  They  were  staring  at  Tanqueray 
now. 

"  WTiere  have  you  been  ?  "  said  she.  "  We  have  n't  heard  of 
you  for  ages." 

"  I  've  been  ill." 

Jane  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing. 

"111?     And  you  never  told  us?"  said  Nina. 

"  I  was  all  right.     I  was  well  looked  after." 

"Who  looked  after  you?" 

He  did  not  answer  her.  For  in  that  instant  there  rose  before 
him  the  image  of  Rose  Eldred,  tender  and  desirable,  and  it  kept 
him  dumb. 

Nina,  whose  devil  was  nothing  if  not  persistent,  repeated  lier 
question.     He  divined  already  in  Nina  a  secret,  subtle  hostility. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  abruptly.     "  I  looked  after  myself." 

Jane  stared  intently  at  a  notice  of  the  departure  and  arrival 
of  trains. 

Laura,  aware  of  embarrassment  somewhere,  began  to  talk  to 
him  light-heartedly,  in  her  fashion,  and  the  moment  passed. 

In  the  train,  going  down  to  Wendover,  Laura  talked  to  Jane. 
Nina  did  not  talk.  Ilcr  (jueer  eyes,  when  they  looked  at  him, 
had  a  light  in  them  of  ironic  devilry  and  suspicion.     They  left 


THECKEATORS  59 

him  speculating  on  the  extent  to  which  he  was  cutting  himself 
off.  This  journey  down  to  Wendover  was  a  stage  in  the  process. 
He  was  going  down  to  tell  Nicholson,  to  ask  Nicholson  to  see 
him  through. 

How  would  Jane  take  it?  How  would  Nina?  How  would 
Laura?  He  had  said  to  himself,  light-heartedly,  that  his  mar- 
riage would  make  no  difference,  that  he  should  retain  them,  all 
three,  as  an  intellectual  seraglio.  Would  this,  after  all,  be  pos- 
sible? When  they  heard  that  he,  George  Tanqueray,  was  mar- 
rying a  servant  in  a  lodging-house  ? 

Aware  now,  vividly  aware,  of  the  thing  he  was  doing,  he 
asked  himself  why,  if  he  was  not  in  love  with  Jane,  he  had  not 
been  in  love  with  Nina?  Nina  had  shown  signs.  Yes,  very 
unmistakably  she  had  shown  signs.  He  could  recall  a  time 
when  there  had  lurked  a  betraying  tenderness  about  her  ironic 
mouth;  when  her  queer  eyes,  as  they  looked  at  him,  took  on  a 
certain  softness  and  surrender.  It  had  not  touched  him.  To 
his  mind  there  had  always  been  something  a  little  murky  about 
Nina.  It  was  the  fault,  no  doubt,  of  her  complexion.  Not  but 
what  Nina  had  a  certain  beauty,  a  tempestuous,  haggard,  Eoman 
eagle  kind  of  beauty.  She  looked  the  thing  she  was,  a  creature 
of  high  courage  and  prodigious  energy.  Besides,  she  had  a  devil. 
Without  it,  he  doubted  whether  even  her  genius  (he  acknowl- 
edged, a  little  grudgingly,  her  genius)  could  have  done  all  it  did. 

It  had  entered  into  Tanqueray 's  head  (though  not  his  heart) 
to  be  in  love  with  Jane.  But  never,  even  by  way  of  fantasy, 
had  it  entered  it  to  be  in  love  with  Nina;  though  it  was  to  Nina 
that  he  looked  when  he  wanted  the  highest  excitement  in  his 
intellectual  seraglio.  He  could  not  conceive  any  man  being  in 
love  with  her,  to  the  extent,  that  is  to  say,  of  trying  to  marry 
her.  Nina  had  the  thing  called  temperament,  more  tempera- 
ment and  murkier  than  he  altogether  cared  for ;  but,  as  for  mar- 
rying, you  might  as  well  try  to  marry  some  bird  of  storm  on 
the  wing,  or  a  flash  of  lightning  on  its  career  through  heaven. 
Nina  —  career  and  all  —  was  pre-eminently  unfit. 

She  had  shown,  more  than  once,  this  ironic  antagonism,  as  if 
she  knew  what  he  thought  of  her,  and  owed  him  a  grudge. 


60  THECREATOES 

If  not  Nina,  why  not  Laura?  She  was  small  and  she  was 
pretty  and  she  was  pathetic,  and  he  liked  women  to  be  so.  Why 
was  it  that  with  all  her  feminine  smallness  and  prettiness  and 
pathos  he  had  never  cared  for  her  ? 

They  were  talking. 

"  Tired,  Laura  ?  "  Jane  asked. 

"  Only  sleepy.     Papa  had  another  dream  last  night." 

They  laughed.  So  did  Laura,  though  her  tragedy  was  there, 
the  tragedy  which  had  given  her  that  indomitable  face. 

Laura  lived  under  conditions  which  would  have  driven  Tan- 
queray  mad.  She  had  a  father;  she  who,  as  Jane  said,  could 
least  of  all  of  them  afford  a  father.  Her  father  had  had  a  sun- 
stroke, and  it  had  made  him  dream  dreams.  He  would  get  up 
a  dozen  times  in  the  night  and  wander  in  and  out  of  Laura's 
bedroom,  and  sit  heavily  on  her  bed  and  tell  her  his  dreams, 
which  terrified  Laura. 

"  It  was  n't  funny,  this  time,"  said  she.  "  It  was  one  of  his 
horrid  ones." 

Nobody  laughed  then.  They  were  dumb  with  the  pity  and 
horror  of  it.  Laura's  father,  when  he  was  awake,  was  the  most 
innocent,  most  uninspired,  most  uncreative  of  old  gentlemen; 
but  in  his  dreams  he  had  a  perfect  genius  for  the  macabre.  The 
dreams  had  been  going  on  for  about  a  year,  and  they  were  making 
Laura  ill.     Tanqueray  knew  it,  and  it  made  him  sad. 

That  was  why  he  had  not  cared  to  care  for  Laura. 

Yet  little  Laura,  very  prettily,  very  innocently,  with  an  entire 
unconsciousness,  had  let  him  see  where  her  heart  was.  And  as 
prettily  and  innocently  and  unconsciously  as  he  could,  he  had  let 
her  see  that  her  heart  was  no  concern  of  his,  any  more  than 
Nina's. 

And  she  had  not  cherished  any  resentment,  she  had  not  owed 
him  any  grudge.  She  had  withdrawn  herself,  still  prettily,  still 
innocently,  so  that  she  seemed,  with  an  absurd  prettiness,  to  be 
making  room  for  Jane. 

He  had  even  a  vague  recollection  of  himself  as  acquiescing  in 
her  withdrawal,  on  those  grounds.  It  was  almost  as  if  there 
had  been  an  understanding  between  him  and  Laura,  between 


THECREATOES  61 

Jane  and  Laura,  between  him  and  Jane.  They  had  behaved 
perfectly,  all  three.  Wliat  made  their  perfection  was  that  in 
all  these  withdrawals,  acquiescences  and  understandings  not  one 
of  them  had  given  any  outward  sign.  They  had  kept  their 
spoken  compact.     They  had  left  each  other  free. 

As  for  his  mere  marriage,  he  was  certain  with  all  of  them 
to  be  understood.  It  was  their  business,  as  they  had  so  often 
told  each  other,  to  understand.  But  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
wanted  to  be  understood  with  the  lucidity,  the  depth,  the  prodi- 
gious thoroughness  of  which  they  were  capable. 

He  said  to  himself,  "  The  blood  of  these  women  is  in  their 
brains."     That  was  precisely  what  he  had  against  them. 


VIII 

IT  was  a  perfect  day,  Jane's  birthday,  like  a  young  June  day, 
a  day  of  the  sun,  of  white  distances  and  vivid  foregrounds. 

Wendover  Hill  looked  over  Arnott  Nicholson's  white  house 
and  over  his  green  garden,  where,  summer  and  winter  through, 
there  brooded  a  heavenly  quiet,  a  perfect  peace.  It  was  strange 
and  sad,  said  Tanqueray,  that  a  quiet  and  peace  like  that  should 
be  given  to  Nicky  —  to  write  poems  in.  Jane  said  it  was  sadder 
and  stranger  that  verse  so  vile  should  flow  from  anything  so 
charming,  so  perfect  in  its  way  as  Nicky. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  she,  as  they  crowded  on  his  doorstep, 
"  do  you  think  he  '11  be  at  home  ?  " 

"  Rather.  We  shall  find  him  in  his  library,  among  his  books 
and  his  busts,  seething  in  a  froth  of  abominable  manuscripts, 
and  feeling  himself  immortal." 

Arnott  Nicholson  was  at  home,  and  he  was  in  his  library,  with 
his  books  and  his  busts,  and  with  Gisborne's  great  portrait  of 
Jane  Holland  (the  original)  above  his  chimney-piece.  He  was, 
as  Tanqueray  had  predicted,  seething  in  his  froth.  Their 
names  came  to  him  there  —  Miss  Holland  and  Mr.  Tanqueray. 
In  a  moment  Nicky  was  out  of  his  library  and  into  his  drawing- 
room. 

He  was  a  singularly  attractive  person,  slender,  distinguished, 
highly  finished  in  black  and  white.  He  was  dressed,  not  like  a 
candidate  for  immortality,  but  in  the  pink  of  contemporary 
perfection. 

He  was  shyly,  charmingly  glad  to  see  them.  And  delighted, 
of  course,  he  said,  to  see  Miss  Lempriere  and  Miss  Gunning. 
He  insisted  on  their  all  staying  to  tea,  to  dinner,  on  their  giving 
him,  now  that  they  had  come,  a  day.     He  ordered  whisky  and 

62 


THECREATORS  63 

soda  and  lemonade.  He  brought  peaches  and  chocolates 
and  cigarettes,  and  offered  them  diffidently,  as  things  mortal  and 
savouring  of  mortality. 

He  went  to  and  fro,  carrying  himself  humbly  yet  with  triumph, 
lik'  one  aware  that  he  entertained  immortal  guests.  He  could  n't 
get  over  it,  he  said,  their  dropping  in  on  him  like  this,  with  a 
divine  precipitance,  out  of  their  blue.  Heavens!  Supposing 
he  had  been  out !  He  stood  there  glowing  at  them,  the  most  per- 
fect thing  in  his  perfect  drawing-room. 

It  was  a  room  of  old  chintzes  and  old  china,  of  fragile,  dis- 
tinguished furniture,  of  family  portraits,  of  miniatures  in  medal- 
lions, and  great  bowls  of  roses  everywhere.  The  whole  house 
had  a  strange  feminine  atmosphere,  a  warm  look  as  if  a  woman's 
hand  had  passed  over  it.  Yet  it  was  Nicky  who  was  the  soul 
of  his  house,  a  slender  soul,  three  parts  feminine. 

Nicky  was  looking  at  Jane  as  she  stooped  over  the  roses.  "  Do 
you  know,"  he  said,  "  that  you  've  come  home  ?  Come  and  see 
yourself." 

He  led  the  way  into  his  library  where  her  portrait  looked 
down  from  its  high  place. 

"  You  bought  it  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Rather.     Gisborne  painted  it  for  me." 

"Oh,  Nicky!" 

"  It 's  your  genius  brooding  over  mine  —  I  mean  over  me." 

He  looked  at  her  again.  When  he  looked  at  you  Nicky's  per- 
fect clothes,  his  long  chin,  his  nose  that  seemed  all  bridge,  his 
fine  little  black  moustache,  Nicky  himself  retreated  into  insignifi- 
cance beneath  his  enormous,  prominent  black  eyes. 

"  I  put  you  there,"  he  said,  "  to  inspire  me." 

Nicky's  eyes  gazed  at  you  with  a  terrible  solemnity  whenever 
he  talked  about  his  inspiration. 

"  Do  I  ?  " 

She  did.  They  had  caught  him  in  the  high  act  of  creation, 
He  'd  been  at  it  since  ten  o'clock ;  sitting  there,  with  the  blood, 
he  said,  beating  so  furiously  in  his  brain  that  if  he  'd  gone  on 
like  that  he'd  have  destroyed  himself.  His  head  was  burning 
now. 


64  THECEEATOKS 

"  We  '11  drag  you,  Nicky,  to  the  top  of  Wendover  Hill,  and 
air  you  thoroughly.     You  reek,"  said  Tanqueray. 

His  idea  always  was  that  they  took  Nicky  out  of  doors  to  air 
him;  he  had  so  strongly  the  literary  taint. 

Nicky  declared  that  he  would  have  been  willing  to  be  dragged 
with  them  anywhere.  Only,  as  it  happened,  he  had  to  be  at 
home.  He  was  expecting  Miss  Bickersteth.  They  knew  Miss 
Bickersteth  ? 

They  knew  her.  Nicky,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  was  in  the 
habit  of  cultivating,  assiduously,  the  right  people;  and  Miss 
Bickersteth  was  eminently  right. 

The  lady,  he  said,  might  be  upon  them  any  minute. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Tanqueray,  "  we  '11  clear  out." 

"  You  clear  out?     But  you  're  the  very  people  he  wants  to  see." 

"He?" 

Hugh  Brodrick.  Miss  Bickersteth  was  bringing  Hugh  Brod- 
rick. 

They  smiled.  Miss  Bickersteth  was  always  bringing  some- 
body or  being  brought. 

Brodrick  was  the  right  man  to  bring.  He  implored  them  to 
stay  and  meet  Brodrick. 

"  Who  is  Brodrick  ?  " 

Brodrick,  said  Nicky,  was  a  man  to  be  cultivated,  to  be 
cherished,  to  be  clung  to  and  never  to  be  let  go.  Brodrick  was 
on  the  "  Morning  Telegraph,"  and  at  the  back  of  it,  and  every- 
where about  it.  And  the  Jews  were  at  the  back  of  Brodrick. 
So  much  so  that  he  was  starting  a  monthly  magazine  —  for  the 
work  of  the  great  authors  only.  That  was  his,  Brodrick's, 
dream.  He  did  n't  know  whether  he  could  carry  it  through. 
Nicky  supposed  it  would  depend  on  the  authors.  No,  on  the 
advertisements,  Brodrick  told  him.  That  was  where  he  had  the 
pull.  He  could  work  the  "  Telegraph  "  agency  for  that.  And 
he  had  tile  Jews  at  the  back  of  him.  He  was  going  to  pay  his 
authors  on  a  scale  that  would  leave  the  popular  magazines  be- 
hind him. 

"  He  sounds  too  good  to  be  true,"  said  Jane. 

"  Or  is  he/'  said  Tanqueray,  "  too  true  to  be  altogether  good  ?  " 


THE     CKEATORS  65 

"  He  is  n't  true,  in  your  sense,  at  all.  That 's  the  beauty  of 
him.  He  's  a  gorgeous  dream.  But  a  dream  that  can  afford  to 
pay  for  itself.'^ 

"  A  dream  with  Jews  at  its  back,"  said  Tanqueray. 

"  And  he  wants  —  he  told  me  —  to  secure  you  first,  Miss  Hol- 
land. And  Mr.  Tanqueray.  And  he  's  sure  to  want  Miss  Lem- 
priere  and  Miss  Gunning.  You  '11  all  be  in  it.  It 's  the  luckiest 
thing  that  you  came  in  to-day,  of  all  days." 

In  fact,  Nicky  suggested  that  if  the  finger  of  Providence  was 
ever  to  be  seen  clearly  working  anywhere,  it  was  working  here. 

A  bell  in  the  distance  tinkled  gently,  with  a  musical  silver 
note.  It  was  one  of  the  perfections  of  Nicky's  house  that  it  had 
no  jarring  noises  in  it. 

"  That 's  he,"  said  Nicky  solemnly.     "  Excuse  me." 

And  he  went  out. 

He  came  back,  all  glowing  and  quivering,  behind  Miss  Bick- 
ersteth  and  Mr.  Hugh  Brodrick. 

Miss  Bickersteth  they  all  knew,  said  Nicky.  His  voice  was 
unsteady  with  his  overmastering  sense  of  great  presences,  of  Jane 
Holland,  of  Tanqueray,  of  Brodrick. 

Brodrick  was  a  man  of  about  thirty-five,  square-built,  with  a 
torso  inclined  to  a  somewhat  heavy  slenderness,  and  a  face  with 
blunt  but  regular  features,  heavily  handsome.  One  of  those  fair 
Englishmen  who  grow  darker  after  adolescence;  hair,  mous- 
tache and  skin  acquiring  a  dull  sombreness  in  fairness.  But 
Brodrick's  face  gained  in  its  effect  from  the  dusky  opacity 
that  intensified  the  peculiar  blueness  of  his  eyes.  They  were 
eyes  which  lacked,  curiously,  the  superficial  social  gaze,  which 
fixed  themselves,  undeviating  and  intent,  on  the  one  object  of 
his  interest.  As  he  entered  they  were  fixed  on  Jane,  turning 
straight  to  her  in  her  corner. 

This  directness  of  aim  rendered  mediation  almost  superfluous. 
But  Nicky,  as  the  fervent  adorer  of  Miss  Holland,  had  brought 
to  the  ceremony  of  introduction  a  solemnity  and  mystery  which 
he  was  in  no  mood  to  abate.  It  was  wonderful  how  in  spite  of 
Brodrick  he  got  it  all  in. 

Brodrick  was  charged  with  a  more  formidable  and  less  ap- 


66  THE     CREATORS 

parent  fire.  Yet  what  struck  Jane  first  in  Brodrick  was  his 
shyness,  his  deference,  his  positive  timidity.  There  was  some- 
ing  about  him  that  appealed  to  her,  pathetically,  to  forget  that 
he  was  that  important  person,  a  proprietor  of  the  "  Morning 
Telegraph."  She  would  have  said  that  he  was  new  to  any 
business  of  proprietorship.  ISTew  with  a  newness  that  shone  in 
his  slumbering  ardour ;  that  at  first  sight  seemed  to  betray  itself 
in  the  very  innocence,  the  openness  of  his  approach.  If  it  could 
be  called  an  approach,  that  slow,  indomitable  gravitation  of 
Brodrick  toward  Jane. 

"  Do  you  often  come  over  to  Wendover  ?  "  he  said. 

"  ISTot  very  often." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Brodrick  said  something  again,  but 
in  so  low  a  voice  that  Jane  had  to  ask  him  what  he  said. 

"  Only  that  it 's  an  easy  run  down  from  Marylebone." 

"It  is  —  very,"  said  she,  and  she  tried  to  draw  him  into  con- 
versation with  Miss  Lempriere  and  Miss  Gunning. 

It  was  not  easy  to  draw  him  where  he  had  not  previously 
meant  to  go.  He  was  a  creature  too  unswerving,  inadaptable 
for  purely  social  purposes.  For  Nina  and  Laura  he  had  only  a 
blank  courtesy.  Yet  he  talked  to  them,  he  talked  fluently,  in 
an  abstracted  manner,  while  he  looked,  now  at  Jane,  and  now  at 
her  portrait  by  Gisborne.  He  seemed  to  be  wondering  quietly 
what  she  was  doing  there,  in  Nicky's  house. 

Nicky,  as  became  him,  devoted  himself  to  Miss  Bickersteth. 
She  was  on  the  reviewing  staff  of  the  "  Morning  Telegraph,"  and 
very  valuable  to  Nicky.  Besides,  he  liked  her.  She  interested 
him,  amused,  amazed  him.  As  a  journalist  she  had  strange  per- 
versities and  profundities.  She  had  sharpened  her  teeth  on 
the  "  Critique  of  Pure  Reason  "  in  her  prodigious  teens.  Yet 
she  could  toss  off,  for  the  "  Telegraph,"  paragraphs  of  an  incom- 
parable levity.  In  the  country  Miss  Bickersteth  was  a  bluster- 
ing, full-blooded  Diana  of  the  fields.  In  town  she  was  intellect, 
energy  and  genial  modernity  made  flesh.  Even  Tanqueray,  who 
drew  the  line  at  the  dreadful,  clever  little  people,  had  not  drawn 
it  at  Miss  Bickersteth.  There  was  something  soothing  in  her 
large  and  florid  presence.     It  had  no  ostensible  air  of  journalism, 


THECEEATORS  67 

of  being  restlessly  and  for  ever  on  the  spot.  You  found  it 
wherever  you  wanted  it,  planted  fairly  and  squarely,  with  a  look 
of  having  grown  there. 

Nicky,  concealed  beside  Miss  Bickersteth  in  a  corner,  had  be- 
gun by  trying  to  make  her  talk  about  Shelley  (she  had  edited 
him).  He  hoped  that  thus  he  might  be  led  on  to  talk  about 
himself.     To  Nicky  the  transition  was  a  natural  one. 

But  Miss  Bickersteth  did  not  want  to  talk  about  Shelley. 
Shelley,  she  declared  irreverently,  was  shop.  She  wanted  to  talk 
about  people  whom  they  knew,  having  reached  the  absolving  age 
of  forty,  when  you  may  say  anything  you  please  about  anybody 
to  an  audience  sufficiently  discreet.  x\nd  she  had  just  seen  Jane 
and  Tanqueray  going  out  together  through  the  long  window  on 
to  the  lawn. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  she,  "  if  they  liked,  they  could  marry  now." 

"  Now  ?  "  repeated  poor  Nicky  vaguely. 

"  Now  that  one  of  them  has  got  an  income." 

"  I  did  n't  think  he  was  a  marrying  man." 

"  No.  And  you  would  n't  think,  would  you,  she  was  a  mar- 
rying woman  ?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  thought  about  it.  He  said 
he  was  n't  going  to  marry." 

"  Oh."  Two  small  eyes  looked  at  him,  two  liquid,  luminous 
spots  in  the  pinkness  of  Miss  Bickersteth's  face. 

"  It 's  got  as  far  as  that,  has  it  ?  That  shows  he  's  been  think- 
ing of  it." 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  showed  he  was  n't." 

Miss  Bickersteth's  mouth  was  decided  in  its  set,  and  vague  in 
its  outline  and  its  colouring.  Her  smile  now  appeared  as  a 
mere  quiver  of  her  face. 

"  How  have  you  managed  to  preserve  your  beautiful  inno- 
cence? Do  you  always  go  about  with  your  head  among  the 
stars  ?  " 

"  My  head ? "     He  felt  it.     It  was  going  round   and 

round. 

"  Yes.     Is  a  poet  not  supposed  ever  to  see  anything  under  his 
exquisite  nose  ?  " 
5    • 


68  THECEEATOES 

"  I  am  not,"  said  Nicky  solemnly,  "  always  a  poet.  And  when 
a  person  tells  me  he  is  n't  going  to  do  a  thing,  I  naturally  think 
he  is  n't." 

"  And  I  naturally  think  he  is.  Whatever  you  think  about 
George  Tanqueray,  he  's  sure  to  do  the  other  thing." 

"  Come  —  if  you  can  calculate  on  that." 

"  You  can't  calculate  on  anything.  Least  of  all  with  George 
Tanqueray.  Except  that  he  '11  never  achieve  anything  that  is  n't 
a  masterpiece.     If  it 's  a  masterpiece  of  folly." 

"  Mind  you,"  she  added,  "  I  don't  say  he  will  marry  Jane  Hol- 
land, and  I  don't  say  it  would  be  a  masterpiece  of  folly  if  he 
did." 

"  WhoX  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  That  if  he  ever  cares  for  any  woman  enough  to  marry  her, 
it  will  be  Jane." 

"  1  see,"  said  Nicky,  after  some  reflection.  "  You  think  he  's 
that  sort?" 

"  I  think  he  's  a  genius.     What  more  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Oh,  /  don't  want  anything  more,"  said  Nicky,  plunging 
head-first  into  a  desperate  ambiguity.  He  emerged.  "  WHiat  I 
mean  is,  when  we  've  got  Him,  and  when  we  've  got  Her  —  crea- 
tors   "     He  paused  before  the  immensity  of  his  vision  of 

Them.     "  What  business  have  we " 

"  To  go  putting  one  and  one  together  so  as  to  make  two  ?  " 

"  Well  —  it  does  n't  seem  quite  reverent." 

"  You  think  them  gods,  then,  your  creators  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  —  worship  them." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Nicholson,  you  're  adorable.     And  I  'mi  atrocious."' 

"  I  believe,"  said  Nicky,  "  tea  is  in  the  garden." 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  garden,"  said  Miss  Bickersteth. 

And  they  went. 

Tea  was  served  in  a  green  recess  shut  in  from  the  lawn  by 
high  yew  hedges.  Nicky  at  his  tea-table  was  more  charming 
than  ever,  surrounded  by  old  silver  and  fine  linen,  making  tea 
delicately,  and  pouring  it  into  fragile  cups  and  offering  it,  doing 
everything  with  an  almost  feminine  dexterity  and  grace. 

After    tea   the    group    scattered    and    rearranged    itself.     In 


THECKEATOES  69 

Nicky's  perfect  garden,  a  garden  of  smooth  grass  plots  and 
clipped  yew-trees,  of  lupins  and  larkspurs,  of  roses  that  would 
have  been  riotous  but  for  the  restraining  spirit  of  the  place;  in 
a  green  alley  between  lawn  and  orchard,  Mr.  Hugh  Brodrick 
found  himself  with  Miss  Holland,  and  alone.  Very  quietly,  very 
persistently,  with  eyes  intent,  he  had  watched  for  and  secured 
this  moment. 

"  You  don't  know,"  he  was  saying,  "  how  I  've  wanted  to  meet 
you,  and  how  hard  I  've  worked  for  it." 

"  Was  it  so  hard  ?  " 

"  Hard  is  n't  the  word  for  it.     If  you  knew  the  things  I  've 

done "     He  spoke  in  his  low,  even  voice,  saying  eager  and 

impulsive  things  without  a  sign  of  eagerness  or  impulse. 

"  What  things  ?  " 

"  Mean  things,  base  things.  Going  on  my  knees  to  people 
I  did  n't  know,  grovelling  for  an  introduction." 

"  I  'm  sorry.     It  sounds  awful." 

"  It  was.  I've  been  on  the  point  of  meeting  you  a  score 
of  times,  and  there  's  always  been  some  horrid  fatality.  Either 
you  'd  gone  when  I  arrived,  or  I  had  to  go  before  you  arrived. 
I  believe  I  \e  seen  you  —  once." 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  At  Miss  Bickersteth's.  You  were  coming  out  as  I  was  going 
in."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  And  now  I  ought  to  be  catch- 
ing a  train." 

"  Don't  catch  it." 

"  I  shan't.  For  I  've  got  to  tell  you  how  much  I  admire  your 
work.  I  'm  not  going  to  ask  how  you  do  it,  for  I  don't  suppose 
you  know  yourself." 

''  I  don't." 

"  I  'm  not  even  going  to  ask  myself.  I  simply  accept  the 
miracle." 

"  If  it 's  miracles  yon  want,  look  at  George  Tanqueray." 

He  said  nothing.  And  now  she  thought  of  it,  he  had  not 
looked  at  George  Tanqueray.  He  bad  looked  at  nobody  but  ber. 
It  was  the  look  of  a  man  who  had  never  known  a  moment's  un- 
certainly as  to  the  thing  he  wanted.     It  was  a  look  that  stuck. 


70  THECEEATORS 

"  Why  are  n't  you  at  his  feet  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Because  I  'm  not  drawn  —  to  my  knees  —  by  brutal  strength 
and  cold,  diabolical  lucidity." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  you  have  n't  read  him." 

"  I  've  read  all  of  him.     And  I  prefer  you." 

"  Me  ?  You  've  spoilt  it  all.  If  you  can't  admire  him,  what 
is  the  use  of  your  admiring  me  ?  " 

"  I  see.     You  don't  want  me  to  admire  you." 

He  said  it  with  no  emphasis,  no  emotion,  as  if  he  were  indif- 
ferent as  to  what  she  wanted. 

"  No.     I  don't  think  I  do." 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  you  have  a  heart." 

"  Oh,  if  people  would  only  leave  my  heart  alone !  " 

"  And  Tanqueray,  I  believe,  has  a  devil." 

She  turned  on  him. 

"  Give  me  George  Tanqueray's  devil ! "  She  paused,  con- 
sidering him.     "  Why  do  you  talk  about  my  heart  ?  " 

"  Because,  if  I  may  say  so,  it 's  what  I  like  most  in  you." 

"  Anvbody  can  like  that." 

"Can  they?" 

"  Yes.  For  ten  people  who  care  for  me  there  is  n't  one  cap- 
able of  caring  for  George  Tanqueray." 

"  How  very  unfortunate  for  him." 

"  Unfortunate  for  me,  you  mean." 

He  smiled.  He  was  not  in  the  least  offended.  It  was  as  if 
her  perverse  shafts  never  penetrated  his  superb  solidity. 

And  yet  he  was  not  obtuse,  not  insensitive.  He  might  fall, 
she  judged,  through  pride,  but  not  through  vanity. 

"  I  admit,"  said  he,  "  that  he  is  our  greatest  living  novelist." 

"  Then,"  said  she,  "  you  are  forgiven." 

"  And  I  may  continue  to  adore  your  tenderness?  " 

"  You  may  adore  anything  —  after  that  admission." 

He  smiled  again,  like  one  satisfied,  appeased. 

"  "WHiat,"  he  said  presently,  "  is  Miss  Lempriere's  work  like  ? 
Has  she  anything  of  your  breadth,  your  solidity,  your  fire  ?  " 

"  There  's  more  fire  in  Nina  Lempriere's  little  finger  than  in 
my  whole  body." 


Why  do  you  talk  about  my  heart/   ' 


THECKEATOES  73 

Brodrick  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  made  a  note  of  ISTina. 

"  And  the  little  lady  ?     What  does  she  do  ?  " 

"  Little  things.  Charming,  delicious,  funny,  pathetic  things. 
Everything  she  does  is  like  herself." 

"  I  must  put  her  down  too."  And  he  made  another  note  of 
Laura. 

They  had  turned  on  to  the  lawn.  Their  host  was  visible, 
gathering  great  bunches  of  roses  for  his  guests. 

"  "Wliat  a  lovable  person  he  is,"  said  Brodrick, 

"  Is  n't  he  ?  "  said  Jane. 

They  faced  the  house,  the  little  house  roofed  with  moss,  walled 
with  roses,  where,  thought  Jane,  poor  Xicky  nested  like  the 
nightingale  he  was  n't  and  would  never  be. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Brodrick,  "  how  he  gets  the  perfection,  the 
peace,  the  finish  of  it,  the  little  feminine  touches,  the  flowers 
on  the  table " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Nicholson  and  his  house  always  look  as  if  they  were 
expecting  a  lady." 

"  But,"  said  Brodrick,  "  it 's  so  pathetic,  for  the  lady  never 
comes." 

"  Perhaps  if  she  did  it  would  n't  be  so  peaceful." 

"  Perhaps.  But  it  must  be  sad  for  him  —  living  alone  like 
this." 

"  I  don't  know.     I  live  alone  and  I  'm  not  sad." 

"  You  ?     You  live  alone  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.     So  does  Mr.  Tanqueray." 

"  Tanqueray.  He  's  a  man,  and  it  does  n't  matter.  But  you, 
a  woman It 's  horrible." 

He  was  almost  animated. 

"  There 's  your  friend,  Miss  Bickersteth.     She  lives  alone." 

"  Miss  Bickersteth  —  is  Miss  Bickersteth." 

"  There  's  Xina  Lempriere." 

"  The  fiery  lady  ?  "  He  paused,  meditating.  "  Why  do  her 
people  let  her  ?  " 

"  She  has  n't  got  any.     Her  people  are  all  dead." 

"  How  awful.  And  your  small  friend,  Miss  Gunning?  Don't 
say  she  lives  alone,  too." 


74  THECEEATOES 

"  She  does  n't.  She  lives  with  her  father.  He  's  worse  than 
a  family " 

"  Worse  than  a ?  "     He  stared  aghast. 

"  Worse  than  a  family  of  seven  children." 

"  And  that 's  a  misfortune,  is  it  ?  "     He  frowned. 

"  Yes,  when  you  have  to  keep  it  —  on  nothing  but  what  you 
earn  by  writing,  and  when  it  leaves  you  neither  time  nor  space 
to  write  in." 

"  I  see.     She  ought  n't  to  have  to  do  it." 

"  But  she  has,  and  it 's  killing  her.  She  'd  be  better  if  she 
lived  alone." 

"  Well  —  I  don't  know  anything  about  Miss  Gunning.  But 
for  you " 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  me." 

"  I  do.     I  've  seen  you.     And  I  stick  to  it.     It 's  horrible." 

"  What 's  horrible  ? "  said  Miss  Bickersteth,  as  they  ap- 
proached. 

"  Ask  Mr.  Brodrick." 

But  Brodrick,  thus  appealed  to,  drifted  away  towards  Nichol- 
son, murmuring  something  about  that  train  he  had  to  catch. 

"  AVhat  have  you  done  to  agitate  him  ?  "  said  Miss  Bickersteth. 
"You  didn't  throw  cold  water  on  his  magazine,  did  you?  " 

"  I  should  n't  have  known  he  had  a  magazine." 

"  Wliat  ?     Did  n't  he  mention  it  ?  " 

"  Not  to  me." 

"  Then  something  is  the  matter  with  him."  She  added,  after 
a  thoughtful  pause,  "What  did  you  think  of  him?  " 

"  There 's  no  doubt  he 's  a  very  amiable,  benevolent  man. 
The  sort  of  man  who  wants  everybody  to  marry  because  he  's 
married  himself." 

"  But  he  is  n't  married." 

"  Well,  he  looks  it.  He  looks  as  if  he  'd  never  been  anything 
hilt  married  all  his  life." 

"  Anyhow,"  said  Miss  Bickersteth,  "  that 's  safe.  Safer  than 
not  looking  married  when  you  are." 

"  Oh,  he 's  safe  enough,"  said  Jane.  As  she  spoke  she  was 
aware  of  Tanqueray  standing  at  her  side. 


IX 

THE  day  was  over,  and  they  were  going  back. 
Their  host  insisted  on  accompanying  them  to  the  station. 
They  had  given  him  a  day,  and  every  moment  of  it,  he  declared 
solemnly,  was  precious. 

They  could  hardly  have  spent  it  better  than  with  Nicky  in  his 
perfect  house,  his  perfect  garden.  And  Nicky  had  been  charm- 
ing, with  his  humble  ardour,  his  passion  for  a  perfection  that 
was  not  his. 

The  day.  Miss  Holland  intimated,  was  his,  Nicky's  present, 
rather  than  theirs.  He  glowed.  It  had  been  glorious,  anyhow, 
a  perfect  day.     A  day,  Nicky  said,  that  made  him  feel  immortal. 

He  looked  at  Jane  Holland  and  George  Tanqueray,  and  they 
tried  not  to  smile.  Jane  would  have  died  rather  than  have  hurt 
Nicky's  feelings.  It  was  not  in  her  to  spoil  his  perfect  day.  All 
the  same,  it  had  been  their  secret  jest  that  Nicky  ivas  immortal. 
He  would  never  end,  never  by  any  possibility  disappear.  As  he 
stuck  now,  he  always  would  stick.  He  was  going  with  them  to 
the  station. 

Sensitive  to  the  least  quiver  of  a  lip,  the  young  man's  mortal 
part  was  stung  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  the  becoming. 

"  If  I  feel  it,"  said  he,  "  what  must  you  feel  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we !  "  they  cried,  and  broke  loose  from  his  solemn  and 
detaining  eyes. 

They  walked  on  ahead,  and  Nicholson  was  left  behind  with 
Laura  Gunning  and  Nina  Lempriere.  He  consented,  patiently 
and  politely,  to  be  thus  outstripped.  After  all,  the  marvellous 
thing  was  that  he  should  find  himself  on  that  road  at  all  with 
Them.  After  all,  he  had  had  an  hour  alone  with  Him,  in  his 
garden,  and  five-and-twenty  minutes  by  his  watch  with  Her. 
It  was  enough  if  he  could  keep  his  divinities  in  sight,  following 
the  flutter  of  Miss  Holland's  veil. 

75 


76  THECEEATOES 

Besides,  she  had  asked  him  to  talk  to  Nina  and  look  after 
Laura.  She  was  always  asking  him  to  be  an  angel,  and  look 
after  somebody.  Being  an  angel  seemed  somehow  his  doom. 
But  he  was  sorry  for  Laura.  They  said  she  had  cared  for  Tan- 
queray;  and  he  could  well  believe  it.  He  could  believe  in  any 
woman  caring  for  Him.  He  wondered  how  it  had  left  her.  A 
little  defiant,  he  thought,  but  with  a  quiet,  clear-eyed  virginity. 
Determined,  too.  Nicholson  had  never  seen  so  large  an  ex- 
pression of  determination  on  so  small  a  face. 

He  always  liked  talking  to  Laura ;  but  he  shrank  inexpressibly 
from  approaching  Nina,  the  woman  with  unquiet  eyes  and  nerv- 
ous gestures,  and  a  walk  that  suggested  the  sweep  of  a  winged 
thing  to  its  end.  A  glance  at  Nina  told  him  that  wherever  she 
was  she  could  look  after  herself. 

Morose,  fearlessly  disarrayed,  and  with  it  all  a  trifle  haggard 
and  forlorn,  Nina  Lempriere  had  the  air  of  not  belonging  to 
them.  She  paused,  she  loitered,  she  swept  tempestuously  ahead, 
but  none  of  her  movements  had  the  slightest  reference  to  her 
companions.  From  time  to  time  he  glanced  uncomfortably  at 
Nina. 

"  Leave  her,"  said  Laura,  "  to  herself." 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "  she  minds  being  left?  " 

"  Not  she.  She  likes  it.  You  don't  suppose  she  's  thinking 
of  usV 

"  Dear  me,  no ;  but  one  likes  to  be  polite." 

"  She  'd  so  much  rather  you  were  sincere." 

"  I  say,  may  n't  I  be  both  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  but  you  could  n't  always  be  with  Nina.  She  makes 
you  feel  sometimes  as  if  it  was  no  use  your  existing." 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "  she  '11  stand  beside  Jane  Hol- 
land?" 

"  No.     She  may  go  farther." 

"Go  farther?     How?" 

"  She  's  got  a  better  chance." 

"  A  better  chance  ?  I  should  n't  have  backed  her  chance 
against  Miss  Holland's." 


THECEEATOES  77 

"  It  is  better.  She  does  n't  get  so  mixed  up  with  people.  If 
she  luere  to " 

He  waited. 

"  She  'd  go  with  a  rush,  in  one  piece,  and  either  die  or  come 
out  of  it  all  right.     Whereas  Jane " 

He  waited  breathlessly. 

"  Jane  would  be  torn  to  tatters,  inch  by  inch." 

Nicholson  felt  a  curious  constriction  across  his  chest.  His 
tnroat  dried  as  he  spoke  again. 

"  WTiat  do  you  think  would  tear  her  most  ?  '* 

"  Oh,  if  she  married." 

"  I  thought  you  meant  that." 

"  The  thing  is,"  said  Laura,  "  not  to  marry."  She  said  it 
meditatively  and  without  reference  to  herself;  but  he  gathered 
that,  if  reference  had  been  made,  she  would,  with  still  more 
dogged  a  determination,  have  kept  her  view. 

He  agreed  with  her,  and  pondered.  Tanqueray  had  once  said 
the  very  same  thing  to  him,  in  talking  about  Jane.  She  ought 
not  to  marry.  He,  Tanqueray,  was  n't  going  to,  not  if  he  knew 
it.     That  was  the  view  they  all  took.     Not  to  marry. 

He  knew  that  they  were  under  vows  of  poverty.  Were  they 
pledged  to  chastity  and  obedience,  too  ?  Obedience,  immitigable, 
unrelenting  ?  How  wonderful  they  were,  they  and  their  achieve- 
ments and  renunciations,  the  things  they  did,  and  the  things 
they  let  alone  simply  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  with  their  in- 
fallible instinct  for  the  perfect.  High,  solitary  priest  and  priest- 
esses of  a  god  diviner  than  desire.  And  She  —  he  saw  her  more 
virgin,  more  perfect  than  they  all. 

"You  think  too  then,"  the  blamless  youth  continued,  "that 
if  Miss  Holland  —  married  it  would  injure  her  career  ?  " 

"  Injure  it  ?     There  would  n't  be  any  career  left  to  injure." 

Was  it  really  so?  He  recorded,  silently,  his  own  determina- 
tion to  remember  that.  It  had  for  him,  also,  the  consecration 
of  a  vow. 

A  thought  struck  him.  Perhaps  Laura,  perhaps  Tanqueray, 
had  divined  him  and  were  endeavouring  in  kindness  to  take 


78  THECEEATOES 

from  him  the  poison  of  a  preposterous  hope.  He  preferred, 
however,  not  to  explain  tliem  or  the  situation  or  himself  thus. 
He  was,  with  all  possible  sublimity,  renouncing  Jane. 

Another  thought  struck  him.  It  struck  him  hard,  with  the 
shock  almost  of  blasphemy.     It  broke  into  speech. 

"  Not,'^  he  said,  "  if  she  were  to  marry  Ilim?  " 

Laura  was  silent,  and  he  wondered. 

Why  not?  After  all  it  was  natural.  She  matched  him.  The 
thing  was  inevitable,  and  it  was  fitting.  So  supremely  fitting 
was  it  that  he  could  not  very  well  complain.  He  could  give  her 
up  to  George  Tanqueray. 


X 

JANE  HOLLAND  and  Tanquery  had  left  the  others  some 
considerable  way  behind.     It  was  possible,  they  agreed,  to 
have  too  much  of  Nicky,  though  he  did  adore  them. 

The  wide  high  road  stood  up  before  them,  climbing  the  ridge, 
to  drop  down  into  Wendover.  A  white  road,  between  grass  bor- 
ders and  hedgerows,  their  green  powdered  white  with  the  dust 
of  it.     Over  all,  the  pallor  of  the  first  white  hour  of  twilight. 

For  a  moment,  a  blessed  pause  in  the  traffic,  they  were  alone ; 
twilight  and  the  road  were  theirs. 

The  two  bore  themselves  with  a  certain  physical  audacity,  a 
swinging  challenge  to  fatigue.  He,  in  his  well-knit  youth, 
walked  with  the  step  of  some  fine,  untamed  animal.  She,  at  his 
side,  kept  the  wild  pace  he  set  with  a  smooth  motion  of  her  own. 
She  carried,  high  and  processionally,  her  trophy,  flowers  from 
their  host's  garden,  wild  parsley  of  her  own  gathering,  and  green 
fans  of  beech  and  oak.  As  she  went,  the  branches  swayed  with 
the  swinging  of  her  body,  A  light  wind  woke  on  the  hill  and 
played  with  her.  Her  long  veil,  grey-blue  and  transparent,  fall- 
ing from  her  head  to  her  shoulders,  flew  and  drifted  about  her, 
now  clinging  to  her  neck,  her  breasts,  now  fluttering  itself  free. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  thought  that  if  Gisborne,  E.A.,  had  n't 
been  an  idiot,  he  would  have  painted  her,  not  sitting,  but  like 
that.  Protected  by  the  charm  of  Eose,  there  was  no  more  terror 
for  him  in  any  charm  of  Jane's.  He  could  afford  to  show  his 
approval,  to  admit  that,  even  as  a  woman,  she  had  points.  He 
could  afford,  being  extremely  happy  himself,  to  make  Jane  happy 
too. 

So  sheltered,  so  protected  was  he  that  it  did  not  strike  him 
that  Jane  was  utterly  defenceless  and  exposed. 

"  Yes^"  he  said,  "  it 's  been  a  day." 

79 


80  THECEEATOES 

"Hasn't  it?" 

She  saw  him  sustained  by  some  inward  ecstasy.  The  coming 
joy,  the  joy  of  his  wedding-day,  was  upon  him;  the  light  of  it 
was  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her,  the  tenderness  of  it  in  his 
voice  as  he  spoke  to  her  again. 

"  Have  you  liked  it  as  much  as  you  used  to  like  our  other 
days  ?  " 

"  Oh  more,  far  more."  Then,  remembering  how  those  other 
days  had  been  indeed  theirs  and  nobody  else's,  she  added,  "  In 
spite  of  poor  Nicky." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  he  realized  that  he  would  have  to 
tell  her  about  Eose;  also  that  he  would  be  hanged  if  he  knew 
how  to.  She  had  been  manifestly  unhappy  when  he  last  saw 
her.  Now  he  saw,  not  only  that  she  was  happy,  but  that  he  was 
responsible  for  her  happiness.  This  was  worse  than  anything 
he  had  yet  imagined.  It  gave  him  his  first  definite  feeling  of 
treachery  toward  Jane. 

Her  reference  to  Nicky  came  like  a  reprieve.  How  was  it, 
he  said,  that  they  were  let  in  for  him  ?  Or  rather,  why  had  they 
ever  let  him  in  ? 

"  It  was  you,  Jane,  who  did  it." 

"  No,  George ;  it  was  you.     You  introduced  him." 

He  owned  it.  "  I  did  it  because  I  hoped  you  'd  fall  in  love 
with  him." 

She  saw  that  there  was  a  devil  in  him  that  still  longed  to 
torment  her. 

"  That,"  said  she,  "  would  have  been  very  bad  for  Nicky." 

"  Yes.     But  it  would  have  been  very  good  for  you." 

She  had  her  moment  of  torment;  then  she  recovered. 

"  I  thought,"  said  she,  "  that  was  the  one  thing  I  was  not  to 
do." 

"  You  're  not  to  do  it  seriously.  But  you  could  n't  fall  in  love 
with  Nicky  seriously.     Could  you  ?     Could  anybody  ?  " 

"  Wliy  are  you  so  unkind  to  Nicky  ?  " 

"  Because  he 's  so  ungovernably  a  man  of  letters." 

"  He  is  n't.     He  only  thinks  he  is." 

"  He  thinks  he  's  Shelley,  because  his  father  's  a  squire." 


THECREATOES  81 

"  That  saves  him.  No  man  of  letters,  if  he  tried  all  night, 
could  think  anything  so  deliciously  absurd.  Don't  you  wish  you 
could  feel  like  that ! " 

He  rose  to  it,  his  very  excitement  kindling  his  intellectual 
flame. 

"  To  feel  myself  an  immortal,  a  blessed  god ! 

They  played  together,  profanely,  with  the  idea  that  Nicky  was 
after  all  divine. 

"  Such  a  tragic  little  god,"  said  Jane,  with  a  pitiful  mouth, 
"  a  little  god  without  a  single  apostle  or  a  prophet  —  nobody," 
she  wailed,  "  to  spread  the  knowledge  of  him." 

"  I  say  —  we  '11  build  an  altar  on  Wendover,  to  Nicky  as  the 
Unknown  God." 

"  He  won't  like  that,  our  calling  him  unknown." 

"  Let 's  call  him  the  Unapparent  —  the  Undeveloped.  He 
is  the  Undeveloped." 

"  In  one  aspect.  In  another  he  's  a  finished  poem,  an  incar- 
nate lyric " 


"  An  ode  to  immortality  on  legs " 

"  Nicky  has  n't  any  legs.  He 's  a  breath  —  a  perpetual  aspi- 
ration." 

"  Oh,  at  aspiring  he  beats  Shelley  into  apoplexy." 

"  He  stands  for  the  imperishable  illusion " 

"  The  stupendous  hope " 

"  And,  after  all,  he  adores  you'' 

"  And  nobody  else   does,"   said  Tanqueray. 

"  That 's  Nicky's  achievement.  He  does  see  what  you  are. 
It 's  his  little  claim  to  immortality.  Just  think,  George,  when 
Nicky  dies  and  goes  to  heaven  he'll  turn  up  at  the  gates  of 
the  poets'  paradise,  and  they  '11  let  him  in  on  the  strength  of  that. 
The  angel  of  the  singing  stars  will  come  up  to  him  and  say, 
'  Nicky,  you  sing  abominably,  but  you  can  see.  You  saw  George 
Tanqueray  when  nobody  else  could.  Your  sonnets  and  your 
ballads  are  forgiven  you ;  and  we  've  got  a  nice  place  for  you, 
Nicky,  near  Keats  and  Shelley.'  Because  it  would  n't  be  heaven 
for  Nicky  if  he  was  n't  near  them." 

"How  about  them,  though?" 


82  THECEEATOES 

"  Oh,  up  in  heaven  you  won't  see  anything  of  Nicky  except 
his  heart." 

"  I  suppose  he  '11  be  stuck  somewhere  near  you,  too.  It  won't 
be  heaven  for  him  if  he  is  n't.  The  first  thing  he  '11  ask  is, 
'Where's  Jane?'" 

"  And  then  they  '11  break  it  to  him  very  gently  —  '  Jane  's  in 
the  other  place,  Nicky,  where  Mr.  Tanqueray  is.  We  had  to  send 
her  down,  because  if  she  was  n't  there  it  would  n't  be  hell  for 
Mr.  Tanqueray.' " 

"  But  why  am  I  down  there  ?  " 

"  Because  you  did  n't  see  what  Nicky  was." 

"  If  you  don't  take  care.  Jinny,  he  '11  '  have '  you  like  the 
rest.  You  're  laying  up  sorrow  for  yourself  in  the  day  when 
Nicky  publishes  his  poems." 

"It's  you  he'll  turn  to." 

"  No,  I  'm  not  celebrated,"  said  he  grimly.  "  There,  do  you 
see  the  full  horror  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  she  moaned. 

Tanqueray's  devil  came  back  to  him. 

"  Do  you  think  he  '11  fall  in  love  with  Laura  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't."  She  said  it  coolly,  though  his  gaze  was  upon 
her,  and  they  were  both  of  them  aware  of  Nicky's  high  infatua- 
tion. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said  lightly. 

"  Because  Nicky  '11  never  be  in  love  with  any  woman  as  she 
is ;  and  nobody  could  be  in  love  with  Laura  as  she  is  n't." 

She  faced  him  in  her  courage.  He  might  take  it,  if  he 
liked,  that  she  knew  Nicky  was  in  love  with  her  as  she  was 
not;  that  she  knew  Tanqueray  would  never,  like  Nicky,  see  her 
as  she  was  not,  to  be  in  love  with  that. 

"  Oh,  you  're  too  subtle,"  he  said.  But  he  understood  her 
subtlety. 

He  must  tell  her  about  Eose.  Before  the  others  could  come 
up  with  them  he  must  tell  her.     And  then  he  must  tell  Nicky. 

"  Jane,"  he  said,  "  will  you  forgive  me  for  never  coming  to 
see  you  ?     I  simply  could  n't  come." 

"  I  know,  George,  I  know." 


THECREATOES  83 

"  You  don't.     You  don't  know  what  I  felt  like." 
"  Perhaps  not.     And  yet,  I  think,  you  might 


But  what  she  thought  he  might  have  done  she  would  not 
tell  him. 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  he,  "  you  '11  let  me  come  and  see  you 
now?     Often;  I  want  to  come  often." 

He  meant  to  tell  her  that  his  marriage  was  to  make  no  dif- 
ference. 

"  Come  as  often  as  you  want.  Come  as  often  as  you  used 
to." 

"  Was  it  so  very  often  ?  " 

"  Not  too  often." 

"  I  say,  those  were  glorious  times  we  had.  We  '11  have  them 
again.  Jinny.  There  are  things  we  've  got  to  talk  about. 
Things  we  've  got  to  do.     Why,  we  're  hardly  beginning." 

"  Do  you  remember  saying,  '  When  you  've  made  yourself  an 
absolutely  clear  medium,  then  you  can  begin  '  ?  " 

"  I  remember." 

He  was  content  now  to  join  her  in  singing  the  duet  of  re- 
membrance. 

She  dismissed  herself.     "  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  ISFot  much.  It  looks  as  if  I  could  n't  do  things  without 
you." 

A  look  of  heavenly  happiness  came  upon  her  face,  and  passed. 

"  That  is  n't  so,  George.  There  never  was  anybody  less 
dependent  on  other  people.  That 's  why  nothing  has  ever 
stopped  you.  Nothing  ever  will.  Whereas  —  you  're  right 
about  me.     Anything  might  stop  me." 

"  Could  I  stop  you  ?  " 

Not  for  his  life  could  he  have  told  what  made  him  ask  her 
that  question,  whether  an  insane  impulse,  or  a  purely  intel- 
lectual desire  to  complete  his  knowledge  of  her,  to  know  how 
deep  she  had  gone  in  and  what  his  power  was,  whether  he 
could,  indeed,  "  stop  "  her. 

"You?"  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  a  long,  profound  and 
passionate  vibration.  He  had  not  dreamed  that  such  a  tone 
could  have  been  wrung  from  Jane. 


84  THECEEATOES 

Her  eyes  met  his.  Steady  they  were  and  deep,  under  their 
level  brows ;  but  in  tliem,  too,  was  that  sudden,  unexpected  qual- 
ity.    Something  in  her  startled  him  with  its  intensity. 

Her  voice,  her  look,  had  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  tell 
her  about  Eose.     It  was  not  the  moment. 

"  I  did  n't  know  she  was  like  that,"  he  thought. 

No,  he  had  never  known  until  now  what  Jane  was;  never 
seen  until  now  that  the  gods  in  giving  her  genius  had  given  her 
one  passion  the  more,  to  complicate  her,  to  increase  tenfold  her 
interest  and  her  charm. 

And,  with  the  charm  of  Eose  upon  him,  he  could  not  tell 
whether,  if  he  had  known,  it  would  have  made  any  difference. 
All  he  knew  or  cared  to  know  was  that  he  was  going  to  marry 
Eose  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

He  would  have  to  ask  Nicky  to  let  him  go  back  with  him  and 
stay  the  night.  Then  he  could  tell  him.  And  he  could  get  out 
of  telling  Jane.  He  liked  teasing  and  tormenting  her,  but 
he  did  not  want  to  stab  her.  Still  less  did  he  want  to  stand 
by  with  the  steel  in  his  hand  and  see  her  bleed. 

He  must  get  away  from  Jane. 


XI 

OlSr  the  morning  after  Wendover  Jane  woke,  bright-eyed 
and  Hushed  with  dreams.  Last  night  a  folding  splendour 
had  hung  over  her  till  she  slept.  It  passed  into  her  dreams, 
and  joy  woke  her. 

She  sat  up  and  swung  her  slender  limbs  over  the  bed-side, 
and  was  caught,  agreeably,  by  her  likeness  in  the  long  glass 
of  the  wardrobe. 

She  went  to  it  and  stood  there,  looking  at  herself.  For  the 
last  three  months  she  had  been  afraid  to  face  the  woman  in 
the  glass.  Sometimes  she  had  had  to  turn  her  head  another 
way  when  she  passed  her.  Every  day  the  woman  in  the  glass 
grew  more  repulsively  powerful  and  sombre,  more  dreadfully 
like  that  portrait  which  George  hated.  She  knew  he  could  n't 
stand  her  when  she  looked  like  that.  Looking  like  that,  and 
George's  inability  to  stand  her,  and  the  celebrity  that  made 
her  so  absurd,  she  put  it  all  down  to  the  peculiar  malice  and 
mischief  of  the  thing  that  had  been,  as  she  said,  "  tacked  on  " 
to  her,  the  thing  they  called  her  Genius. 

And  now  she  did  not  look  like  that  in  the  very  least.  She 
looked,  to  her  amazement,  like  any  other  woman. 

Nobody  had  ever  said  that  Jane  was  handsome.  She  hadn't 
one  straight  feature,  except  her  eyebrows  which  were  too  straight. 
She  was  n't  pretty,  either.  There  was  something  about  her  too 
large  and  dominating  for  that.  She  had  that  baffling  and  pro- 
voking modern  beauty  which  secures  its  effect  by  some  queer- 
ness,  some  vividness  of  accent,  and  triumphs  by  some  ugliness 
subdued.  It  was  part  of  her  queerness  that  she  had  the  square 
brows,  the  wide  mouth,  the  large,  innocent  muzzle  of  a  deer, 
and  a  neck  that  carried  her  head  high.  With  a  queerness 
amounting  to  perversity  some  gentle,  fawn-like,  ruminant 
6  85 


86  THECKEATOES 

woman  had  borne  her.  And,  queerer  still,  her  genius  had 
rushed  in  and  seized  upon  that  body,  that  it  might  draw  wild 
nature  into  it  through  her  woodland,  pastoral  blood.  And  for 
the  blood  it  took  it  had  given  her  back  fire. 

Latterly,  owing  to  Tanqueray's  behaviour,  whenever  Jane 
looked  in  the  glass,  it  had  been  the  element  of  queerness  and 
ugliness  that  she  had  seen.  She  had  felt  herself  cruelly 
despoiled,  disinherited  of  the  splendours  and  powers  of  her  sex. 
And  here  she  was,  looking,  as  slie  modestly  put  it,  like  any  other 
woman.  Any  one  of  the  unknown  multitude  whom  lately,  in 
prophetic  agony,  she  had  seen  surrounding  Tanqueray;  women 
dowered,  not  with  the  disastrous  gift  of  genius,  but  with  the 
secret  charm  and  wonder  of  mere  womanhood.  One  of  these 
(she  had  always  reckoned  with  the  possibility),  one  of  these 
conceivably  might  at  any  moment,  and  inevitably  would  when  her 
moment  came,  secure  and  conquer  Tanqueray.  She  had  been 
afraid,  even  in  vision,  to  measure  her  power  with  theirs. 

But  now,  standing  there  in  the  long  nightgown  that  made 
her  so  straight  and  tall,  with  arms  raised,  holding  up  the  thick 
mass  of  her  hair,  her  body  bent  a  little  backwards  from  the 
waist,  showing  it  for  the  slender  and  supple  thing  it  was,  see- 
ing herself  so  incredibly  feminine  and  so  alive,  she  defied  any 
one  to  tell  the  difference.  If  any  difference  there  were  it  was 
not  in  her  body,  neither  was  it  in  her  face.  That  was  the  face 
which  had  looked  at  Tanqueray  last  night;  the  face  which  he 
had  called  up  to  meet  that  strange  excitement  and  that  tender- 
ness of  his.  Her  body  was  the  body  of  a  woman  created  in  a 
day  and  a  night  by  joy  for  its  own  wooing. 

This  glorious  person  was  a  marvel  to  itself.  It  was  so  in- 
comprehensibly, so  superlatively  happy.  Its  eyes,  its  mouth,  its 
hands  and  feet  were  happy.  It  was  happy  inside  and  out  and 
all  over.  It  had  developed  a  perfectly  preposterous  capacity  for 
enjoyment.  It  found  pleasure  in  bathing  itself,  in  dressing 
itself,  in  brushing  its  hair.  And  its  very  hair,  when  it  had 
done  with  it,  looked  happy. 

It  was  at  its  happiest  at  ten  o'clock,  when  Jane  sat  down 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S  87 

to  write  a  letter  to  Tanqueray.  The  letter  had  to  be  written. 
For  yesterday  Nina  Lempriere  had  asked  her  to  supper  in  her 
rooms  on  Sunday,  and  she  was  to  bring  George  Tanqueray.  If, 
said  ISTina,  she  could  get  him, 

Sunday  Avas  the  seventeenth.  This  was  Wednesday,  the  thir- 
teenth. She  would  hear  from  Tanqueray  to-night  or  to-morrow 
at  the  latest.  And  there  would  be  only  four  days  to  get  through 
till  Sunday. 

To-night  and  to-morrow  went,  and  Tanqueray  did  not  write. 
Jane's  heart  began  to  ache  with  an  intolerable  anxiety. 

It  was  on  Saturday  night  that  the  letter  came. 

"  Dear  Jinny,"  it  said.  "  It  was  nice  of  Nina  to  ask  me 
to  supper.     I  'm  sorry  I  can't  come.     I  got  married  yesterday. 

"Yrs.,  G.  T. 
"P.S.  —  Nicky  saw  me  through." 

Not  a  word  about  his  wife. 

At  first  the  omission  did  not  strike  her  as  significant.  It 
was  so  like  Tanqueray,  to  fling  you  the  bare  body  of  a  fact  while 
he  cherished  the  secret  soul  of  it  himself.  He  must  have  won- 
dered how  she  would  take  it. 

She  took  it  as  she  would  have  taken  a  telegram  from  a 
stranger,  telling  her  that  Tanqueray  was  dead.  She  took  it,  as 
she  would  have  taken  the  stranger's  telegram,  standing  very 
stiff  and  very  still.  She  faced,  as  it  were,  an  invisible  crowd 
of  such  strangers,  ignorant  of  the  intimacy  of  her  loss,  not  rec- 
ognizing her  right  to  suffer,  people  whose  presence  constrained 
her  to  all  the  observances  of  decency. 

She  crushed  the  note  in  her  hand  vindictively,  as  she  would 
have  crushed  that  telegram  :  she  pushed  it  from  her,  hating  the 
thing  that  had  made  her  suffer.  Then  she  drew  it  to  her  again ; 
she  smoothed  it;  she  examined  it,  as  she  might  have  examined 
the  telegram,  to  verify  the  hour  and  the  place  of  the  decease, 
to  establish  the  fact  which  seemed  incredible. 

Verification   brought  the   first  live   pangs   that   stabbed   her. 


88  THECEEATOKS 

She  was  aware  of  the  existence  of  the  woman.  There  had  been 
a  woman  all  the  time.  But  she  could  n't  realize  her.  She  only 
knew  that  she  meant  finality,  separation. 

An  hour  passed.  She  went  to  bed.  Her  footsteps  and  her 
movements  in  undressing  were  hushed  and  slow.  She  was  stiU 
like  some  one  who  knows  that  there  has  been  a  death  in  the 
house  and  that  the  body  lies  in  the  next  room.  Stretched  in 
her  bed,  turning  her  face  to  the  wall  to  hide  herself,  she  had 
that  sense  of  awful  contact  and  of  separation,  of  there  being 
only  a  wall  between  the  living  and  the  dead. 

The  best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  her  would  have 
been  to  lie  awake  all  night,  and  let  her  heart  and  brain  ham- 
mer as  they  would,  till  they  hammered  her  to  stupefaction. 
Unfortunately,   towards  morning  she  fell  into  a  sound  sleep. 

She  woke  from  it  with  nerves  re-charged  to  the  point  of 
torture  and  a  brain  intolerably  acute.  She  saw  now  all  the 
vivid,  poignant  things  which  last  night  she  had  overlooked. 
She  realized  the  woman.  She  divined  her  secret,  her  signifi- 
cance, all  that  she  stood  for  and  all  that  she  portended.  In 
the  light  of  that  woman  (for  she  spread  round  her  an  unbearable 
illumination)  Jane  saw  transparently  what  she  had  been  to 
Tanqueray.  She  had  had  no  power  and  no  splendour  for  him 
of  her  own.  But  she  had  been  the  reflection  of  the  woman's 
splendour  and  her  power.  So  much  so  that,  when  he  looked 
at  her  as  he  had  looked  the  other  evening,  he,  George  Tan- 
queray, had  grown  tender  as  if  in  the  presence  of  the  other. 
He  had  suffered  a  sentimental,  a  sensuous  hallucination,  and 
had  made  her  suffer. 

But  never,  never  for  a  moment  had  he  cared  for  her,  or  seen 
in  her  any  power  or  splendour  of  her  own. 

She  wondered  why  he  had  not  told  her  about  that  woman 
then.  It  had  been  just  two  days  before  he  married  her.  Per- 
haps it  had  been  only  his  shyness,  or,  more  likely,  his  per- 
versity. 

But  he  had  said  nothing  about  her  now.  He  had  not  said, 
as  men  say  so  fatuously  in  this  circumstance,  that  he  believed 


THECEEATORS  89 

they  would  like  each  other  and  that  he  hoped  they  would  be 
friends. 

It  was  borne  in  on  her  that  he  had  said  nothing  because  he 
knew  it  was  the  end.  There  were  no  fatuous  beliefs  and  hopes 
in  Tanqueray.  And  if  there  was  perversity,  there  was  also 
an  incorruptible,  an  almost  violent  honesty.  His  honesty  was, 
as  it  were,  part  of  his  perversity. 

He  was  not  going  to  keep  up  any  absurd  pretences,  to  let 
her  imagine  for  one  moment  that  it  was  not  the  end.  It  was 
to  mean,  not  only  that  Tanqueray  would  no  longer  exist  for 
her,  but  that  she  would  no  longer  exist  for  Tanqueray.  In  her 
attitude  to  him,  there  had  always  been,  though  Tanqueray  did 
^not  know  it,  an  immense  simplicity  and  humbleness.  She  felt 
herself  wiped  out  by  this  woman  who  wore  for  him  (she  saw 
her  wearing)  all  the  powers  and  all  the  splendours.  Tan- 
queray's  wife  must  make  an  end  of  her  and  of  everything.  There 
was  nothing,  not  the  smallest,  most  pitiful,  cast-up  fragment 
that  she  could  save  from  the  wreck.  A  simple,  ordinary  friend- 
ship might  have  survived  it,  but  not  theirs.  There  had  been 
in  it  a  disastrous  though  vague  element  of  excess.  She  could 
not  see  it  continuing  in  the  face  of  Tanqueray's  vdfe.  As  for 
enlarging  it  so  as  to  embrace  Tanqueray's  wife  as  well  as  Tan- 
queray, Jane  simply  could  n't.  There  was  something  virile  in 
her  that  forbade  it.  She  could  no  more  have  taken  Tanqueray's 
wife  into  her  heart  than  Tanqueray,  if  their  cases  had  been 
reversed,  could  have  taken  into  his  Jane's  husband.  She  might 
have  expected  Tanqueray  to  meet  her  husband,  to  shake  hands 
with  him,  to  dine  with  him,  but  not  to  feel  or  to  profess  affection 
for  him.  So  Tanqueray  would  probably  expect  her  to  call  upon 
his  wife,  to  receive  her,  to  dine  with  her,  perhaps,  but  it  would 
end  there. 

It  would  end  there,  in  hand-shakings  and  in  frigid  ceremony, 
this  friendship  to  which  Tanqueray  had  lent  himself  with  a 
precipitance  that  resembled  passion  and  a  fervour  that  sug- 
gested fire. 

Looking  back,  she  wondered  at  what  moment  the  real  thing 


90  THECEEATORS 

had  begun.  She  was  certain  that  two  months  ago,  on  that 
evening  in  May  after  he  had  dined  with  her,  the  moment,  which 
was  his  moment,  had  been  hers.  She  had  been  divided  from 
him  by  no  more  than  a  hair's-breadth.  And  she  had  let  him 
go  for  a  scruple  finer  than  a  hair. 

And  yet  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  scruple  had  not  really 
counted.  It  might  have  worked,  somehow,  at  the  moment; 
but  she  could  not  think  of  it  as  containing  all  the  calamitous 
weight  of  destiny.  Her  failure  (it  was  so  pre-eminently  her 
failure)  came  of  feeling  and  of  understanding  at  every  moment 
far  too  much.  It  came  of  having  eyes  at  the  back  of  your  head 
and  nerves  that  extended,  prodigiously,  beyond  the  confines  of 
your  body.  It  was  as  if  she  understood  with  her  body  and  felt 
with  her  brain,  passion  and  insight  in  her  running  disastrously 
together. 

It  came  back  to  her  that  Tanqueray  had  always  regarded  her 
with  interest  and  uncertainty,  as  if  he  had  wondered  whether 
she  were  really  like  other  women.  In  his  moment  he  had 
searched  her  for  their  secret,  and  her  scruple  had  worked  so 
far  that  he  judged  her  lacking  in  the  instinct  of  response. 

Her  heart,  of  course,  he  must  have  heard.  It  had  positively 
screamed  at  him.  But  her  heart  was  not  what  had  concerned 
him  at  any  moment.  She  remembered  how  she  had  said  to  him 
that  night,  "  May  n't  I  be  a  woman  ?  "  and  he  had  answered  her 
brutally.  What  Jiad  concerned  him  was  her  genius.  If  there 
had  been  twenty  women  in  her  he  would  have  made  her  sacri- 
fice them  all  to  that.  He  had  cared  for  it  to  the  point  of  ten- 
derness, of  passion.  She  had  scores  of  his  letters  in  a  drawer, 
there;  love-letters  written  to  her  genius.  She  knew  one  of 
them,  the  last,  by  heart.     It  was  written  at   Hampstead. 

"  Jinny,"  it  had  said,  "  I  'm  on  my  knees,  with  my  hat  off, 
at  your  feet.  I  'm  in  the  dust,  Jenny,  kissing  your  feet.  Shiv- 
ers of  exquisite  adoration  are  going  up  and  down  my  spine. 
Do  you  know  what  you  've  done  to  me,  you  unspeakably  divine 
person?  I've  worn  out  the  knees,  the  knees  of  my  trousers; 
I've  got  dust  in  my  hair,  Jinny,  kissing  your  feet." 

That  letter   (tliere  was  a  great  deal  more  of  it)   had  tided 


THECREATORS  91 

her  over  Tanqueray's  worst  absence;  it  had  carried  her  on,  so 
to  speak,  to  Wendover.  As  she  thought  of  it  her  heart  was 
filled  with  hatred  and  jealousy  of  her  genius. 

It  was  odd,  but  she  had  no  jealousy  and  no  hatred  for  Tan- 
queray's wife. 

She  hated  and  was  jealous  of  her  genius,  not  only  because 
it  had  forced  Tanqueray  to  care  for  it,  but  because,  being  the 
thing  that  had  made  her  different  from  other  women,  it  had 
kept  Tanqueray  from  caring  about  her. 

And  she  had  got  to  live  alone  with  it. 

Her  solitude  had  become  unbearable.  The  room  was  unbear- 
able; it  was  so  pervaded,  so  dominated  by  her  genius  and  by 
Tanqueray.  Most  of  all  by  Tanqueray.  There  were  things  in 
it  which  he  had  given  to  her,  things  which  she  had  given  to 
him,  as  it  were;  a  cup  he  drank  out  of,  a  tray  he  used  for 
his  cigar-ash;  things  which  would  remain  vivid  for  ever  with 
the  illusion  of  his  presence.  She  could  not  bear  to  see  them 
about.  She  suffered  in  all  ways,  secretly,  as  if  Tanqueray  were 
dead. 

A  bell  rang.     It  was  four  o'clock.     Somebody  was  calling. 

As  to  one  preoccupied  with  a  bereavement,  it  seemed  to  her 
incredible  that  anybody  could  call  so  soon.  She  was  then 
reminded  that  she  had  a  large  acquaintance  who  would  be  inter- 
ested in  seeing  how  she  took  it.  She  had  got  to  meet  all 
these  people  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  She  remembered  now 
that  she  had  promised  Caroline  Bickersteth  to  go  to  tea  with 
her  to-day.  If  she  wanted  to  present  an  appearance  of  nothing 
having  happened,  she  could  n't  do  better  than  go  to  Caro's  for 
tea.  Caro  expected  her  and  would  draw  conclusions  from  her 
absence. 

So  might  her  caller  if  she  declared  herself  not  at  home. 

It  was  Nicky,  come,  he  said,  to  know  if  she  were  going  to 
Miss  Bickersteth's,  and  if  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  taking 
her  there.  That  was  all  he  cared  to  go  for,  the  pleasure  of 
taking  her. 

Jane  had  never  thought  of  Nicky  being  there.  He  was  a 
barrister    and   he   had    chambers,    charming   chambers,    in    the 


92  THE     CEEATOES 

Temple,  where  he  gave  little  tea-parties  and  (less  frequently) 
looked  up  little  cases.  But  on  Sundays  he  was  always  a  little 
poet  down  at  Wendover. 

They  need  n't  start  at  once,  he  said,  almost  as  if  he  knew 
that  Jane  was  dreading  it.  He  sat  and  talked ;  he  talked  straight 
on  end;  talked,  not  literature,  but  humble,  innocent  banalities, 
so  unlike  Nicky  who  cared  for  nothing  that  had  not  the  literary 
taint. 

It  was  a  sign  of  supreme  embarrassment,  the  only  one  he 
gave.  He  did  not  mention  Tanqueray,  and  for  a  moment  she 
wondered  if  he  had  heard.  Then  she  remembered.  Of  course, 
it  was  Nicky  who  had  seen  Tanqueray  through. 

Nicky  was  crowning  his  unlikelihood  by  refraining  from  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  event.  He  was,  she  saw  with  dreadful 
lucidity,  afraid  of  hurting  her.  And  yet,  he  was  (in  his  ex- 
quisite delicacy)  behaving  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  They 
were  going  together  to  Miss  Bickersteth's  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  His  manner  suggested  that  they  were  moving  to- 
gether in  a  world  where  nothing  could  happen;  a  world  of 
delightful  and  amicable  superficialities.  She  was  not  to  be 
afraid  of  him;  he  was,  as  it  were,  looking  another  way;  he 
was  n't  even  aware  of  any  depths.  The  sheer  beauty  and  gen- 
tleness of  him  showed  her  that  he  had  seen  and  understood 
thoroughly  what  depths  there  were. 

It  was  her  certainty  of  Nicky's  vision  that  drove  her  to  the 
supreme  act  of  courage. 

"  Why  are  n't  we  talking,"  she  said,  "  about  George  Tan- 
queray ?  " 

Nicky  blushed  in  a  violent  distress.  Even  so,  in  the  house 
of  mourning,  he  would  have  blushed  at  some  sudden,  unsoftened 
reference  to  the  deceased. 

"  I  did  n't  know,"  he  said,  "  whether  he  had  told  you." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?" 

Poor  Nicky,  she  had  made  him  blunder,  so  upset  was  he 
by  the  spectacle  of  her  desperate  pluck.  He  really  was  like  a 
person  calling  after  a  bereavement.  He  had  called  on  account 
of  it,  and  yet  it  was  the  last  thing  he  was  going  to  talk  about. 


THECEEATOES  93 

He  had  come,  not  to  condole,  but  to  see  if  there  was  any  way 
in  which  he  could  be  of  use. 

"  Well,"  said  Nicky,  "  he  seemed  to  have  kept  it  so  carefully 
from   all  his   friends " 

"  He  told  you Why,  you  were  there,  were  n't  you  ?  " 

It  was  as  if  she  had  said,  "  You  were  there  —  you  saw  him 
die." 

"  Yes."  Nicky's  face  expressed  a  tender  relief.  If  she  could 
talk  about  it "  But  it  was  only  at  the  last  minute." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  she,  "  why  he  did  n't  tell  us." 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  think  it  was  because  she  —  the  lady " 

He  hesitated.  He  knew  what  would  hurt  most;  and  he 
shrank  almost  visibly  from  mentioning  Her. 

"  Yes  —  you  've  forgotten  the  lady." 

She  smiled,  and  he  took  courage.  "  There  it  is.  The  lady, 
you  see,  is  n't  altogether  a  lady." 

"  Oh,  Nicky " 

He  did  not  look  at  her.  He  seemed  to  be  a  partaker  in 
what  he  felt  to  be  her  suffering  and  Tanqueray's  shame. 

"  Has  he  known  her  long  ?  "  she  said. 

"  About  two  months." 

She  was  right  then.  It  had  been  since  that  night.  It  had 
been  her  own  doing.     She  had  driven  him  to  her. 

"  Since  he  went  to  Hampstead  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Who  was  she  ?  " 

"  His  landlady's  daughter,  I  think,  or  a  niece.  She  waited 
on  him  and  —  she  nursed  him  when  he  was  ill." 

Jane  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  almost  audible  sound.  Nicky 
had  sunk  into  his  chair  in  his  attitude  of  vicarious,  shamefaced 
misery. 

It  made  her  rally.  "  Nicky,"  she  said,  "  why  do  you  look 
like  that  ?  I  don't  think  it 's  nice  of  you  to  sit  there,  giving 
him  away  by  making  gloomy  faces,  in  a  chair.  WTiy  should  n't 
he  marry  his  landlady's  daughter  if  he  likes?  You  ought  to 
stand  up  for  him  and  say  she's  charming.  She  is.  She  must 
be ;  or  he  would  n't  have  done  it." 


94  THECREATOPtS 

"  He  ought  not  to  have  done  it." 

"  But  he  has.  It  had  to  happen.  Nothing  else  could  have 
happened." 

"  You  think  so  ?  It  seems  to  me  the  most  unpredestined,  the 
most  horribly,  fantastically  fortuitous  occurrence." 

"  It  was  what  he  wanted.  Would  n't  you  have  given  him  what 
he  wanted  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nicky,  "  not  if  it  was  n't  good  for  him." 

"  Oh,  Nicky,  how  do  you  know  what 's  good  for  him  ?  You  're 
not  George  Tanqueray." 

"  No.     If  I  were  I  'd  have "     He  stopped.     His  passion, 

growing  suddenly,  recklessly,  had  brought  him  to  the  verge 
of  the  depth  they  were  trying  to  avoid. 

"  If  you  were,"  said  she,  with  amazing  gaiety,  "  you  'd  have 
married  this  lady  who  isn't  a  lady.  And  then  where  would 
you  have  been  ?  " 

"  Where  indeed  ?  "  said  Nicky  bitterly. 

Jane's  face,  so  gay,  became  suddenly  tragic.  She  looked 
away,  staring  steadily,  dumbly,  at  something  that  she  saw. 
Then  he  knew  that  he  had  raised  a  vision  of  the  abyss,  and  of 
Tanqueray,  their  Tanqueray,  sinking  in  it.  He  must  keep 
her  from  contemplating  that,  or  she  would  betray  herself,  she 
would  break  down. 

He  searched  his  heart  for  some  consoling  inspiration,  and 
found  none.  It  was  his  head  which  suggested  that  irrelevance 
was  best. 

"  When/'  said  he,  by  way  of  being  irrelevant,  "  are  you  going 
to  give  us  another  big  book  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.     "  Never,  I  think." 

He  looked  up.  Her  eyes  shone  perilously  over  trembling 
pools  of  tears.    He  had  not  been  irrelevant  at  all. 

"  You  don't  ihink  anything  of  the  sort,"  he  said,  with  a 
sharp  tenderness. 

"  No.  I  feel  it.  There  is  n't  another  book  in  me.  I  'm 
done    for,    Nicky." 

Her  tears  were  hanging  now  on  the  curve  of  her  eyelashes. 
They  shook  and  fell. 


THECEEATOES  95 

She  sat  there  silent,  fronting  the  abyss.  Nicky  was  horrified 
and  looked  it.     If  that  was  how  she  took  it 

"  You  Ve  overworked  yourself.  That 's  all,"  he  said  pres- 
ently. 

"Yes.     That's  all." 

She  rose.  "  Nicky,"  she  said,  "  it 's  half-past  four.  If  we  're 
going  we  must  go." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  want  to  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  want  to."  She  said  it  in  a  tone  that  for  Nicky 
pointed  to  another  blunder. 

"  I  only  thought,"  said  he  simply,  "  it  might  bore  you." 


XII 

MISS  BICKERSTETH'S  house  was  round  the  corner.  So 
small  a  house  that  a  front  room  and  a  hack  room  thrown 
together  hardly  gave  Caro  space  enough  for  tea-parties.  But 
as  the  back  room  formed  a  recess,  what  space  she  had  was 
admirably  adapted  for  the  discreet  arrangement  of  conversa- 
tion in  groups.  Its  drawback  was  that  persons  in  the  recess 
remained  unaware  of  those  who  entered  by  the  door  of  the 
front  room,  until  they  were  actually  upon  them. 

Through  that  door,  opened  gently  by  the  little  servant.  Miss 
Bickersteth,  in  the  recess,  was  heard  inquiring  with  some  excite- 
ment, "  Can't  either  of  you  tell  me  who  she  is  ?  " 

Only  Nina  and  Laura  were  with  her.  Jane  knew  from  their 
abrupt  silence,  as  she  entered,  that  they  had  been  discussing 
George  Tanqueray's  marriage.  She  gathered  that  they  had 
only  just  begun.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  invite  them 
to  go  on,  to  behave  in  all  things  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
or  could  happen  to  her. 

"  Please  don't  stop,"  she  said,  "  it  sounds  exciting." 
"  It   is.     But   Mr.   Nicholson  disapproves   of   scandal,"   said 
Caro,  not  without  address. 

"  He 's  been  talking  nothing  else  to  me,"  said  Jane, 

"  Yes,  but  his  scandal  and  our  scandal " 

"  Yours  is  n't  in  it  with  his.  He  's  seen  her." 
Three  faces  turned  to  Nicholson's,  as  if  it  held  for  them 
the  reflection  of  his  vision.  Miss  Bickersteth's  face  was  flushed 
with  embarrassment  that  struggled  with  curiosity;  Nina's  was 
almost  fierce  in  its  sombre,  haggard  intensity;  Laura's,  in  its 
stillness,  had  an  appealing  anxiety,  an  innocent  distress.  It  was 
shadowless  and  unashamed ;  it  expressed  a  trouble  that  had  in 
it  no  taint  of  self. 

06 


THECEEATORS  97 

Nicky  met  them  with  an  admirable  air  of  light-hearted- 
ness.  "  Don't  look  at  me/'  he  said.  "  I  can't  tell  you  any- 
thing/' 

"  But  —  you  've  seen  her/'  said  Miss  Bickersteth,  seating  her- 
self at  her  tea-table. 

"  I  've  seen  her,  but  I  don't  know  her/'  he  said  stiffly. 

"  She  does  n't  seem  to  have  impressed  him  favourably/'  re- 
marked Miss  Bickersteth  to  the  world  in  general. 

Nicky  brought  tea  to  Jane,  who  opened  her  eyes  at  him  in 
deprecation  of  his  alarming  reticence.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
said,  "  Oh,  Nicky  —  to  please  me  —  won't  you  say  nice  things 
about  her  ?  " 

He  understood.  "  Miss  Holland  would  like  me  to  tell  you 
that  she  is  charming." 

"  Do  you  know  her.  Jinny  ?  "     It  was  Laura  who  spoke. 

"  No,  dear.     But  I  know  George  Tanqueray." 

"  As  for  Nicky,"  she  went  on,  with  high  daring,  "  you  must  n't 
mind  what  he  says.  He  would  n't  think  any  mortal  woman  good 
enough  for  George." 

Nicky's  soul  smiled  all  to  itself  invisibly  as  it  admired  her. 

"  I  see/'  said  Miss  Bickersteth.  "  The  woman  is  n't  good 
enough.     I  hope  she's  good." 

"  Oh  —  good.     Good  as  they  make  them," 

"  He  knows/'  said  Jane,  "  more  than  he  lets  out." 

She  withdrew  into  the  corner  where  little  Laura  sat,  while 
Miss  Bickersteth  put  her  witness  under  severe  cross-examina- 
tion. 

"  Is  it,"  she  said,  "  the  masterpiece  of  folly  ?  " 

"  It  looks  like  it.     Only,  she  is  good." 

*'  Good,  but  impossible." 

"  Im-possible." 

"  Do  you  mean  —  for  Him  ?  " 

"  I  mean  in  herself.     Utterly  impossible." 

"But  inevitable?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  to  judge  by  what  I  saw." 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Bickersteth,  "how  did  it  happen?" 

"  I  don't  know/'  said  Nicky,  "  how  it  happened." 


98  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Miss  Bickersteth  seemed  almost  to 
retire  from  ground  that  was  becoming  perilous. 

"  You  may  as  well  tell  them/'  said  Jane,  "  what  you  do 
know." 

"  I  have,"  said  poor  Nicky. 

"  You  have  n't  told  us  who  she  is,"  said  Nina. 

"^  She  is  Mrs.  George  Tanqueray.  She  was,  I  believe,  a  very 
humble  person.  The  daughter  —  no  —  I  think  he  said  the 
niece  —  of  his  landlord." 

"  Uneducated  ?  "  said  Miss  Bickersteth. 

"  Absolutely." 

"Common?" 

He  hesitated  and  Jane  prompted.     "  No,  Nicky." 

"  Don't  tamper,"  said  Miss  Bickersteth,  "  with  my  witness. 
Uncommon  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Any  aitches  ?  " 

"  I  decline,"  said  Nicky,  "  to  answer  any  more  questions." 

"  Never  mind.  You  've  told  us  quite  enough.  I  'm  disgusted 
with   Mr.   Tanqueray." 

"  But  why  ?  "  said  Jane  imperturbably. 

""WHiy?  When  one  thinks  of  the  women,  the  perfectly  ador- 
able women  he  miglit  have  married  —  if  he  'd  only  waited.  And 
he  goes  and  docs  this." 

"  He  knows  his  own  business  best,"  said  Jane. 

"  A  man's  marriage  is  not  his  business." 

''What  is  it,  then?" 

Miss  Bickersteth  was  at  a  loss  for  once,  and  Laura  helped 
her.     "  It 's  his  pleasure,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  He  'd  no  right  to  take  his  pleasure  this  way." 

Jane  raised  her  head. 

"  He  had.     A  perfect  right." 

"  To  throw  himself  away?  My  dear  —  on  a  little  servant-girl 
without  an  aitch  in  her?" 

"  On  anybody  he  pleases." 

"  Can  you  imagine  George  Tanqueray,"  said  Nina,  "  throw- 
ing himself  away  on  anybody  ? " 


THE     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S  99 

"  /   can  —  easily,"   said   Nicholson. 

"  Whatever  he  throws  away,"  said  Nina,  "  it  won't  be  him- 
self." 

"  My  dear  Nina,  look  at  him,"  said  Miss  Bickersteth.  "  He  's 
done  for  himself  —  socially,  at  any  rate." 

"  Not  he.  It 's  men  like  George  Tanqneray  who  can  afford 
to  do  these  things.  Do  you  suppose  anybody  who  cares  for 
him  will  care  a  rap  whom  he  marries  ?  " 

"■I   care,"   said   Nicky.     "  I   care    immensely." 

"  You  need  n't.  Marriage  is  not  —  it  really  is  not  —  the  fear- 
fully important  thing  you  think  it." 

Nicholson  looked  at  his  boots,  his  perfect  boots. 

"  It 's  the  most  important  act  of  a  man's  life,"  he  said. 
"  An  ordinary  man's  —  a  curate's  —  a  grocer's.  And  for  Tan- 
queray  —  for  any  one  who  creates " 

"  For  any  one  who  creates,"  said  Nina,  "  nothing  's  important 
outside  his  blessed  creation." 

"  And  this  lady,  I  imagine,"  said  Miss  Bickersteth,  "  will  be 
very  much  outside  it." 

Nicky  raised  his  dark  eyes  and  gazed  upon  them.  "  Good 
heavens !     But  a  man  wants  a  woman  to  inspire  him." 

"  George  does  n't,"  said  Jane.  "  You  may  trust  him  to  inspire 
himself." 

"  You  may,"  said  Nina.  "  In  six  months  it  won't  matter 
whether  George  is  married  or  not.     At  least,  not  to  George." 

She  rose,  turning  on  Nicky  as  if  something  in  his  ineffectual 
presence  maddened  her.  "  Do  you  suppose,"  she  said,  "  that 
woman  counts?  No  woman  counts  with  men  like  George  Tan- 
queray." 

"  She  can  hold  you  back,"  said  Nicky. 

"You  think  so?  You  haven't  got  a  hundred  horse-power 
genius  pulling  you  along.  When  he  's  off,  fifty  women  hanging 
on  to  him  could  n't  hold  him  back." 

She  smiled.  "  You  don't  know  him.  The  first  time  that 
wife  of  his  gets  in  his  way  he  '11  shove  her  out  of  it.  If  she 
does  it  again  he  '11  knock  her  down  and  trample  her  under 
his  feet." 


100  THE     CKEA  TOES 

Her  smile,  more  than  ever  ironic,  lashed  Nicky's  shocked 
recoil. 

"  Creators  are  a  brutal  crew,  Mr.  Nicholson.  We  're  all  the 
same.     You  need  n't  be  sorry  for  us." 

She  looked,  over  Nicky's  head  as  it  were,  at  Jane  and  Laura. 
It  was  as  if  with  a  sweep  of  her  stormy  wing  she  gathered 
them,  George  Tanqueray  and  Jane  and  Laura,  into  the  spaces 
where  they  ran  the  superb  course  of  the  creators. 

The  movement  struck  Arnott  Nicholson  aside  into  his  place 
among  the  multitudes  of  the  uncreative.  Who  was  he  to  judge 
George  Tanqueray?  If  slie  arraigned  him  she  had  a  right  to. 
She  was  of  his  race,  his  kind.  She  could  see  through  Nicky  as 
if  he  had  been  an  innocent  pane  of  glass.  And  at  the  moment 
Xicky's  soul  with  its  chivalry  and  delicacy  enraged  her.  Caro- 
line Bickersteth  enraged  her,  everybody  enraged  her  except  Jane 
and   little  Laura. 

She  stood  beside  Jane,  who  had  risen  and  was  about  to  say 
good-bye. 

Caro  would  have  kept  them  with  her  distressed,  emphatic 
"Must  you  go?"     She  was  expecting,  she  said,  Mr.  Brodrick. 

Jane  was  not  interested  in  Mr.  Brodrick.  She  could  not  stay 
and  did  not,  and,  going,  she  took  Nina  with  her. 

Laura  would  have  followed,  but  Miss  Bickersteth  held  her 
with  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  Nicholson  left  them,  though  Laura's 
eyes  almost  implored  him  not  to  go. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Bickersteth.  "  Tell  me.  Have  you  any 
idea  how  much  she  cares  for  him?" 

"She?" 

"  Jane." 

"  You  've  no  reason  to  suppose  she  cares." 

"Do  you  think  he  cared  in  the  very  least  for  her?" 

"  I  think  he  may  have  —  without  knowing  it." 

"My  dear,  there's  nothing  that  man  doesn't  know.  He 
knows,  for  instance,  all  about  us." 

"  Us  ? " 

"  You  and  I.     We  've  both  of  us  been  there.     And  Nina." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  K  S  101 

"  She  was  flagrant !  " 

"  Flagrant  ?  " 

"  Flagrant  is  n't  the  word  for  it.  She  was  flamboyant,  mag- 
nificent, superb ! " 

"  You  forget  she  's  my  friend,"  said  little  Laura. 

"  She 's  mine.  I  'm  not  traducing  her.  Look  at  George 
Tanqueray.  I  defy  any  woman  not  to  care  for  him.  It 's 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  —  like  an  infatuation  for  a  stock- 
broker who  has  no  use  for  you.  It 's  —  it 's  your  apprentice- 
ship at  the  hands  of  the  master." 


XIII 

NINA  inhabited  a  third  floor  in  a  terrace  off  the  Strand, 
overlooking    the    river.     You    approached    it    by    secret, 
tortuous  ways  that  made  you  wonder. 

In  a  small  backroom,  for  an  unspeakable  half-hour,  the 
two  women  had  sat  over  the  table  facing  each  other,  with  Tan- 
queray's  empty  place  between  them.  There  had  been  moments 
when  their  sense  of  his  ironic,  immaterial  presence  had  struck 
them  dumb.  It  was  as  if  this  were  the  final,  consummate  stroke 
of  the  diabolic  master.  It  had  been  as  impossible  to  talk  about 
him  as  if  he  had  been  sitting  there  and  had  overheard  them. 

They  left  him  behind  them  in  the  other  room,  a  room  where 
there  was  no  evidence  of  Tanqueray  's  ever  having  been.  The 
place  was  incontestably  and  inalterably  Nina's.  There  were 
things  in  it  cared  for  by  Nina  with  a  superstitious  tenderness, 
portraits,  miniatures,  relics  guarded,  as  it  were,  in  shrines. 
And  in  their  company  were  things  that  Nina  had  worn  out  and 
done  with;  things  overturned,  crushed,  flung  from  her  in  a 
fury  of  rejection;  things  on  which  Nina  had  inflicted  personal 
violence,  provoked,  you  felt,  by  their  too  long  and  intimate 
association  with  her;  signs  everywhere  of  the  pace  at  which  she 
went  through  things.  It  was  as  if  Nina  had  torn  off  shreds, 
fringes,  whole  layers  of  herself  and  left  them  there.  You  in- 
ferred behind  her  a  long,  half-savage  ancestry  of  the  open  air. 
There  were  antlers  about  and  the  skins  of  animals.  A  hunting- 
crop  hung  by  the  chimney-piece.  Foils,  fishing-rods,  golf-clubs 
staggered  together  in  a  corner.  Nina  herself,  long-limbed, 
tawny,  aquiline,  had  the  look  of  wild  and  nervous  adolescence 
prisoned  within  walls. 

Beyond  this  confusion  and  disorder,  her  windows  opened  wide 
to  London,  to  the  constellated  fires,  the  grey  enchantment  and 
silence  of  the  river. 

102 


THE     CREATORS  103 

It  was  Nina  who  began  it.  Leaning  back  in  a  very  low  chair, 
with  her  legs  crossed  and  her  arms  flung  wide,  a  position  almost 
insolent  in  its  ease,  she  talked. 

"Jinny,"  she  said,  "have  you  any  idea  how  it  happened?" 

Jane  made  a  sound  of  negation  that  was  almost  inaudible, 
and  wholly  inarticulate. 

Nina  pondered.  "  I  believe,"  she  said  presently,  "  you  do 
know."  She  paused  on  that  a  moment.  "  It  need  n't  have  hap- 
pened," she  said.  "  It  would  n't  if  you  'd  shown  him  that  you 
cared." 

Jane  looked  at  her  then.  "  I  did  show  him,"  she  said. 
"  That 's  liow  it  happened." 

"  It  could  n't.     Not  that  way." 

"  It  did.  I  waked  him  up.  I  made  him  restless,  I  made 
him  want  things.     But  there  was  nothing  —  nothing " 

"  You  forget.  I  've  seen  him  with  you.  Wliat  's  more,  I  've 
seen  him  without  you." 

"  Ah,  but  it  was  n't  that.  Not  for  a  moment.  It  could  never 
have  been  thatJ' 

"You  could  have  made  it  that.  You  could  have  made  it 
anything  you  liked.  Jinny !  If  I  'd  been  as  sure  of  him  as 
you  were,  I  'd  never  have  let  him  go.     I  'd  have  held  on " 

Her  hands'  tense  clutch  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  showed  how 
she  would  have  held  on. 

"  You  see,"  said  Jinny,  "  I  was  never  sure  of  him." 

A  silence  fell  between  them. 

"  You  were  in  it,"  said  Nina,  troubling  the  silence.  "  It 
must  —  it  must  have  been  something  you  did  to  him." 

"  Or  something  I  did  n't  do." 

"  Yes.     Something  you  did  n't  do.     You  did  n't  know  how." 

Jane  could  have  jumped  at  this  sudden  echo  of  her  thought. 

"And  she  did,"  said  Nina. 

She  got  up  and  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece,  looking 
down  on  Jane.  "  Poor  Jinny,"  she  said.  "  How  I  hated  you 
three  years  ago." 

Jane  remembered.  It  was  just  three  years  since  Nina  had 
gone  away  without  saying  a  word  and  hidden  herself  among 


104  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S 

the  mountains  where  she  M'as  born.  In  her  isolation  she  had 
conceived  and  brought  forth  her  "  Tales  of  the  Marches."  And 
a  year  ago  she  had  come  back  to  them,  the  Nina  whom  they 
knew. 

"  You  can't  hate  me  now,"  Jane  said. 

"  I  believe  I  would  if  you  had  been  sure  of  him.  But  I  don't 
hate  you.     I  don't  even  hate  her." 

"  ^Yhy  should  you  ?  " 

"Why  should  I?  When  I  don't  believe  she's  sure  of  him, 
either.  She 's  called  out  the  little  temporary  animal  or  the 
devil  in  him.     That 's  what  she  's  married.     It  won't  last." 

"  No,  Nina.     Nicky  said  she  was  good." 

"  It 's  wonderful  how  good  women  manage  these  things." 

"  Not  when  they  're  absolutely  simple." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  's  simple  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  because  I  'm  not." 

"  Simplicity,"  said  Nina,  "  would  only  give  her  more  rope." 

"  Nina  —  there  's  one  thing  Nicky  did  n't  tell  us.  He  never 
let  on  that  she  was  pretty.  I  suppose  he  thought  that  was  more 
than  we  could  bear." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  's  pretty  ?  " 

"  That 's  how  I  see  her.  Very  pretty,  very  soft  and  tender. 
Shy  at  first,  and  then  very  gently,  very  innocently  letting  her- 
self go.     And  always  rather  sensuous  and  clinging." 

"  Poor  idiot  —  she  's  done  for  if  she  clings.  I  'm  not  sorry 
for  George,  Jinny ;  I  'm  sorry  for  the  woman.  He  '11  lay  her 
flat  on  the  floor  and  wipe  his  boots  on  her." 

Jane  shrank  back.  "  Nina,"  she  said,  "  you  loved  him.  And 
yet  —  you  can  tear  him  to  pieces." 

"  You  think  I  'm  a  beast,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.     When  you  tear  him  —  and  before  people,  too." 

She  shrank  a  little  further.  Nina  was  now  sitting  on  the  floor 
with  her  back  against  Jane's  knees. 

"  It 's  all  very  well  for  you,"  she  said.  "  He  wanted  to  care 
for  you.  He  only  wanted  me  —  to  care.  That 's  what  he  is. 
He  makes  you  care,  he  makes  you  show  it,  he  drives  you  on  and 
on.     He  gives  nothing;  he  takes  nothing.     But  he  lets  you  strip 


THE     CEEATOES  105 

yourself  bare;  he  lets  you  bring  him  the  soul  out  of  your  body, 
and  then  he  turns  round  and  treats  you  as  if  you  were  his  cast- 
off  mistress." 

She  laid  her  head  back  on  Jane's  knee,  so  that  Jane  saw 
her  face  foreshortened  and,  as  it  were,  distorted. 

"  If  I  had  been  —  if  I  'd  been  like  any  other  woman,  good 
or  bad,  he  'd  have  been  different." 

Jane  started  at  this  sudden  voice  of  her  own  thought. 

It  was  as  if  some  inscrutable,  incredible  portion  of  herself, 
some  dark  and  fierce  and  sensual  thing  lay  there  at  her  feet. 
It  was  not  incredible  or  inscrutable  to  itself.  It  was  indeed 
splendidly  unashamed.  It  gloried  in  itself  and  in  its  suffer- 
ing. It  lived  on  its  own  torture,  violent  and  exalted ;  Jane 
could  hardly  bear  its  nearness  and  its  utterance.  But  she  was 
sorry  for  it.     Slie  hated  to  see  it  suffer. 

It  raised  its  head. 

"  Does  n't  it  look,  Jinny,  as  if  genius  were  the  biggest  curse 
a  woman  can  be  saddled  with  ?  It 's  giving  you  another  sex 
inside  you,  and  a  stronger  one,  to  plague  you.  When  we  want 
a  thing  we  can't  sit  still  like  a  woman  and  wait  till  it  comes  to 
us,  or  does  n't  come.  We  go  after  it  like  a  man ;  and  if  we  can't 
get  it  peaceably  we  fight  for  it,  as  a  man  fights  when  he  is  n't 
a  coward  or  a  fool.  And  because  we  fight  we  're  done  for.  And 
then,  when  we  're  down,  the  woman  in  us  turns  and  rends  us. 
But  if  we  got  what  we  wanted  we  'd  be  just  like  any  other 
woman.     As  long,"  she  added,  "  as  we  wanted  it." 

She  got  up  and  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece  looking 
down,  rather  like  a  man,  on  Jane. 

"  It 's  borne  in  on  me,"  she  said,  "  that  the  woman  in  us 
is  n't  meant  to  matter.  She  's  simply  the  victim  of  the  Will- 
to-do-things.  It  puts  the  bit  into  our  mouths  and  drives  us 
the  way  we  must  go.  It 's  like  a  whip  laid  across  our  shoulders 
whenever  we  turn  aside." 

She  paused  in  her  vehemence. 

"  Jinny  —  have  you  ever  reckoned  with  your  beastly  genius  ?  " 

Jane  stirred  in  her  corner.  "  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  if  it 's 
any  good  I  '11  have  to  pay  for  it." 


106  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S 

"  You  '11  have  to  pay  for  it  with  everything  you  've  got  and 
with  everything  you  have  n't  got  and  might  have  had.  With  a 
genius  like  yours,  Jinny,  there  '11  be  no  end  to  your  paying. 
You  may  make  up  your  mind  to  that." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Jane,  "  how  much  George  will  have  to 
pay?" 

"  Nothing.  He  '11  make  his  wife  pay.  You  'd  have  paid  if 
he  'd  married  you." 

"  I  wonder.  Nina  —  he  was  worth  it.  I  'd  have  paid  ten 
times  over.     So  would  you." 

"  I  have  paid.     I  paid  beforehand.     Which  is  a  mistake." 

She  looked  down  at  her  feet.  They  were  fine  and  feminine, 
Nina's  feet,  and  exquisitely  shod.  She  frowned  at  them  as  if 
they  had  offended  her. 

"  Never  again,"  she  said,  as  if  admonishing  her  feet.  "  Never 
again.  There  must  be  no  more  George  Tanquerays.  If  I  see 
one  coming,  I  '11  put  a  knife  into  myself,  not  hard  enough  to 
kill,  but  hard  enough  to  hurt.  I  '11  find  out  where  it  hurts  most 
and  keep  it  there.  So  that  I  may  n't  forget.  If  I  have  n't  the 
pluck  to  stick  it  in  myself,  I  '11  get  you  to  do  it  for  me.  You  '11 
only  have  to  say  '  George  Tanqueray.'  " 

Her  murky  face  cleared  suddenly. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said.  "  I  believe,  if  any  woman  is  to  do 
anytliing  stupendous,  it  means  virginity.  But  I  know  it  means 
that  for  you  and  me." 


Jaue  slurteil  at  tliis  suddou  voic-e  of  her  own  tliougbt 


XIV 

AUGUST  and  September  came.  One  by  one  the  houses  in 
Kensington  Square  had  put  on  their  white  masks;  but 
in  the  narrow  brown  house  at  the  corner,  among  all  the  decorous 
drawn  blinds  and  the  closed  shutters,  the  top-floor  window 
stared  wide  awake  on  the  abandoned  Square. 

Jane  Holland  had  stayed  in  London  because  it  was  aban- 
doned. She  found  a  certain  peace  in  the  scattering  and  retreat- 
ing in  all  directions  of  the  terrible,  converging,  threatening 
multitudes  of  the  clever  little  people,  the  multitudes  that  gather 
round  celebrity,  that  pursue  celebrity,  that  struggle  and  con- 
tend for  celebrity  among  themselves.  They  had  all  gone  away, 
carrying  with  them  their  own  cleverness  and  Jane's  celebrity. 
For  her  celebrity,  at  least  her  dreadful  sense  of  it,  vanished  when 
they  went. 

She  could  go  in  and  out  of  the  Square  now,  really  hidden, 
guarding  her  secret,  no  longer  in  peril,  feeling  herself  obscure. 

Not  that  she  could  really  feel  anything,  or  enjoy  her  obscurity 
or  do  anything  with  it  now  that  she  had  got  it.  She  was  no 
longer  a  creature  that  felt  or  thought,  or  did  things.  You  could 
not  call  it  thinking,  this  possession  of  her  mind  by  one  tyrannous 
idea.  Every  morning  she  got  up  determined  to  get  through  the 
day  without  thinking  of  Tanqueray.  But  when  she  tried  to 
read  his  face  swam  across  the  page,  when  she  tried  to  write 
it  thrust  itself  saliently,  triumphantly,  between  her  and  the 
blank  sheet.  It  seemed  to  say,  "  You  '11  never  get  rid  of  me 
that  way."  When  she  tried  to  eat  he  sat  down  beside  her  and 
took  away  her  appetite.  And  whenever  she  dressed  before  the 
looking-glass  he  made  her  turn  from  her  own  reflection,  saying 
to  herself,  "  No  wonder  he  did  n't  care  for  me,  a  woman  witii 
a  face  like  that,  fit  to  frighten  the  babies  in  Kensington  Gar- 
dens." 

109 


110  THECEEATOES 

He  drove  her  out  of  doors  at  last,  and  she  became  simply  a 
thing  that  walked;  a  thing  caught  in  a  snare  and  shut  up  in 
a  little  space  where  it  could  walk;  a  thing  once  wild  that  had 
forgotten  the  madness  and  anguish  of  its  capture,  that  turned 
and  turned,  till  all  its  senses  served  the  solitary,  perpetual  im- 
pulse of  its  turning. 

So  Jane  walked,  without  any  sense  of  direction  or  deliver- 
ance, round  and  round  in  her  cage  of  Kensington  Gardens. 

She  did  not  stop  to  ask  herself  how  she  was  to  go  on.  She  had 
a  sort  of  sense  that  she  would  go  on  somehow,  if  only  she 
hardened  her  heart.     So  she  hardened  it. 

She  hardened  it,  not  only  against  the  clever  little  people  who 
had  never  touched  it,  but  against  Nicky  and  Nina  and  Laura. 
Laura's  face  in  August  had  grown  whiter  than  ever;  it  was 
taking  on  a  fixed,  strained  look.  This  face,  the  face  of  her 
friend,  appeared  to  Jane  like  something  seen  in  a  dream, 
something  remotely,  intangibly,  incomprehensibly  sad.  But  it 
had  no  power  to  touch  her.  She  had  hardened  her  heart  against 
everybody  she  knew. 

At  last  she  succeeded  in  hardening  it  against  the  world, 
against  the  dawn  and  the  sunset,  and  the  grey  skies  at  evening, 
against  the  living  grass  and  the  trees;  she  hardened  it  against 
everything  that  was  beautiful  and  tender,  because  the  beauty  and 
the  tenderness  of  things  pierced  it  with  an  unbearable  pain. 
It  was  hard  to  the  very  babies  in  the  Gardens,  where  she  walked. 

One  day  she  came  upon  a  little  boy  running  along  the  Broad 
Walk.  The  little  boy  was  unable  to  stop  because  he  believed 
himself  to  be  a  steam-engine,  so  he  ran  his  small  body  into  Jane 
and  upset  it  violently  at  her  feet.  And  Jane  lieard  herself  say- 
ing, "Why  don't  you  look  where  you're  going?"  in  a  voice  as 
hard  as  her  heart. 

Tlien  she  looked  at  tlie  little  boy  and  saw  his  eyes.  They 
were  the  eyes  that  children  have  for  all  strange  and  sudden 
cruelties.  They  held  her  so  that  she  did  not  stoop  and  pick 
him  up.  He  picked  himself  up  and  ran  to  his  mother,  sob- 
bing out  his  tale,  telling  her  that  he  was  a  steam-engine,  and 
he  could  n't  stop. 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  Pt  S  111 

And  Jane  turned  away  across  the  grass  and  sat  down  under 
a  tree,  holding  her  head  high  to  keep  her  tears  back,  for  they 
hurt.  Her  thoughts  came  in  a  tumult,  tender,  passionate,  inco- 
herent, mixed  with  the  child's  wail. 

"  I  was  a  steam-engine  and  I  could  n't  stop.  I  must  n't  care 
for  George  if  it  makes  me  knock  little  boys  down  in  their  pretty 
play  and  be  cruel  to  them.  I  '11  stop  thinking  about  George 
this  minute  —  I  was  a  steam-engine  and  I  could  n't  stop.  No 
wonder  he  did  n't  care  for  me,  a  woman  who  could  do  a  thing 
like  that.  I  '11  never,  never  think  of  him  again  —  I  wonder  if 
he  knew  I  was  like  that." 

The  pain  that  she  had  been  trying  to  keep  out  had  bitten 
its  way  through,  it  gnawed  at  her  heart  for  days  and  made  it 
tender,  and  in  growing  tender  she  grew  susceptible  to  pain.  She 
was  aware  of  the  world  again;  she  knew  the  passion  that  the 
world  absorbs  from  things  that  feel,  and  the  soul  that  passes 
perpetually  into  its  substance.  It  hurt  her  to  see  the  beauty 
that  came  upon  the  Gardens  in  September  evenings,  to  see  the 
green  earth  alive  under  its  web  of  silver  air,  and  the  trees  as 
they  stood  enchanted  in  sunset  and  blue  mist. 

There  had  been  a  procession  of  such  evenings,  alike  in  that 
insupportable  beauty  and  tenderness.  On  the  last  of  these,  the 
last  of  September,  Jane  was  sitting  in  a  place  by  herself  under 
her  tree.  She  could  not  say  how  or  at  what  moment  the  incred- 
ible thing  happened,  but  of  a  sudden  the  Avorld  she  looked  at 
became  luminous  and  insubstantial  and  divinely  still.  She  could 
not  tell  whether  the  stillness  of  the  world  had  passed  into  her 
heart,  or  her  heart  into  the  stillness  of  the  world.  She  could  not 
tell  what  had  happened  to  her  at  all.  She  only  knew  that  after 
it  had  happened,  a  little  while  after,  something  woke  out  of 
sleep  in  her  brain,  and  it  was  then  that  she  saw  Hambleby. 

Up  till  this  moment  Hambleby  had  been  only  an  idea  in  her 
head,  and  Tanqueray  had  taught  her  a  profound  contempt  for 
ideas  in  her  head.  And  the  idea  of  Hambleby,  of  a  little  sub- 
urban banker's  clerk,  was  one  that  he  had  defied  her  to  deal  with ; 
she  could  not,  he  had  said,  really  see  him.  She  had  given  him 
up  and  forgotten  all  about  him. 


112  THE     CREATOES 

He  arose  with  the  oddest  irrelevance  out  of  the  unfathomable 
peace.  She  could  not  account  for  him,  nor  understand  why, 
when  she  was  incapable  of  seeing  him  a  year  ago,  she  should 
see  him  now  with  such  extreme  distinctness  and  solidity.  She 
saw  him,  all  pink  and  blond  and  callow  with  excessive  youth, 
advancing  with  his  inevitable,  suburban,  adolescent  smile.  She 
saw  his  soul,  the  soul  he  inevitably  would  have,  a  blond  and 
callow  soul.  She  saw  his  Girl,  the  Girl  he  inevitably  would 
have.  She  was  present  at  the  mingling  of  that  blond  soul  with 
the  dark  flesh  and  blood  of  the  Girl.  She  saw  it  all ;  the  Inno- 
cence of  Hambleby ;  the  Marriage  of  Hambleby ;  the  Torture  -and 
subsequent  Deterioration  of  Hambleby;  and,  emerging  in  a  sort 
of  triumph,  the  indestructible  Decency  of  Hambleby, 

Heavens,  what  a  book  he  would  be. 

Hambleby !  She  was  afraid  at  first  to  touch  him,  he  was  so 
fragile  and  so  divinely  shy.  Before  she  attempted,  as  Tanqueray 
would  have  said,  to  deal  with  him,  he  had  lived  in  her  for  weeks, 
stirring  a  delicate  excitement  in  her  brain  and  a  slight  fever 
in  her  blood,  as  if  she  were  falling  in  love  with  him.  She  had 
never  possessed  so  completely  this  virgin  ecstasy  of  vision,  this 
beatitude  that  comes  before  the  labour  of  creation.  She  walked 
in  it,  restless  but  exultant. 

And  when  it  came  to  positively  dealing  with  him,  she  found 
that  she  had  n't  got  to  deal.  Hamblel\y  did  it  all  himself,  so 
alive  was  he,  so  possessed  by  the  furious  impulse  to  be  born. 

Now  as  long  as  Hambleby  was  there  it  was  impossible  for 
Jane  to  think  about  Tanqueray,  and  she  calculated  that  Ham- 
bleby would  last  about  a  year.  For  a  year,  then,  she  might  look 
to  have  peace  from  Tanqueray. 

But  in  three  months,  towards  the  end  of  January,  one  half 
of  Hambleby  was  done.  It  then  occurred  to  her  that  if  she 
was  to  behave  absolutely  as  if  nothing  had  happened  she  would 
have  to  show  him  to  Tanqueray.  Instead  of  showing  him  to 
Tanqueray  she  took  him  to  Nina  Lempriere  and  Laura  Gun- 
ning. 

Tliat  was  how  Jane  came  back  to  them.     They  sat  till  mid- 


THECEEATOES  113 

night  over  the  fire  in  Nina's  room,  three  of  them  where  there 
had  once  been  four. 

"Do  you  like  him?"  said  Jane. 

"  Bather !  "  It  was  Nina  who  spoke  first.  She  lay  at  all  her 
length  along  the  hearth-rug,  recklessly,  and  her  speech  was  inno- 
cent of  the  literary  taint. 

"  Jinny,"  said  Laura,  "  he  's  divine.  However  did  you  think 
of  him  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  have  to  think.  I  simply  saw  him.  Is  there  any- 
thing wrong  with  him?  " 

"  Not  a  thing." 

If  there  had  been  a  flaw  in  him  Laura  would  have  found  it. 
Next  to  Tanqueray  she  was  the  best  critic  of  the  four.  There 
followed  a  discussion  of  technical  points  that  left  Hambleby 
intact.     Then  Laura  spoke  again. 

"  How  George  would  have  loved  him.." 

Six  months  after,  she  still  spoke  of  Tanqueray  gently,  as  if 
he  were  dead. 

Nina  broke  their  silence. 

"  Does  anybody  know  what 's  become  of   Tanks  ?  " 

They  did  not  answer. 

"Doesn't  that  Nicholson  man  know?" 

"Nicky  thinks  he's  somewhere  down  in  Sussex/'  said  Jane. 

"  And  where  's  she  ?  " 

"Wlierever  he  is,  I  imagine." 

"  I  gave  her  six  months,  if  you  remember." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Laura,  "  why  he  does  n't  turn  up." 

"  Probably,"  said  Nina,  "  because  he  does  n't  want  to." 

"  He  might  write.     It  is  n't  like  him  not  to." 

"No,"  said  Jane,  "it  isn't  like  him."  She  rose.  "Good- 
bye, I  'm  going." 

She  went,  with  a  pain  in  her  heart  and  a  sudden  fog  in  her 
brain  that  blurred  the  splendour  of  Hambleby. 

"Perhaps,"  Laura  continued,  "he  thinks  ive  want  to  drop 
him.  Yon  know,  if  he  has  married  a  servant-girl  it's  what 
he  would  think." 


114  THE     CEEATOES 

"  If,"  said  Nina,  "  he  thought  about  it  at  all." 

"  He  'd  think  about  Jinny," 

"  If  he  'd  thought  about  Jinny  he  would  n't  have  married 
a  servant-girl." 

It  was  then  that  Laura  had  her  beautiful  idea.  She  was 
always  having  them. 

"  It  was  Jinny  he  thought  about.  He  thought  about  nothing 
else.  He  gave  Jinny  up  for  her  own  sake  —  for  her  career.  You 
know  what  he  thought  about  marrying." 

She  was  in  love  with  her  idea.  It  made  George  sublime, 
and  preserved  Jinny's  dignity.  But  Nina  did  not  think  much 
of  it,  and  said  so.  She  sat  contemplating  Laura  a  long  time. 
"  Queer  Kiddy,"  she  said,  "  very  queer  Ividdy." 

It  was  her  tribute  to  Laura's  moral  beauty. 

"  I  say,  Infant,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  were  you  ever  in  love  ?  " 

"  Why  should  n't  I  be  ?     I  'm  human,"  said  the  Infant. 

"  I  doubt  it.  You  're  such  a  calm  Kiddy.  I  'd  like  to  know 
how  it  takes  you." 

"  It  does  n't  take  me  at  all,     I  don't  give  it  a  chance." 

"  It  does  n't  give  you  a  chance,  when  it  comes,  my  child." 

"  Yes,  it  does.  There 's  always,"  said  the  Infant,  speaking 
slowly,  "  just  —  one  —  chance.     Wlien  you  feel  it  coming." 

"  You  don't  feel  it  coming." 

"  I  do.  You  asked  me  how  it  takes  me.  It  takes  me  by 
stages.  Gradual,  insidious  stages.  In  the  first  stage  I  'm  happy, 
because  it  feels  nice.  In  the  second  I  'm  terrified.  In  the  third 
I  'm  angry  and  I  turn  round  and  stamp.     Hard." 

"Ridiculous  baby.     With  those  feet?" 

"  \Mien  those  feet  have  done  stamping  there  is  n't  much  left 
to  squirm,  I  can  tell  you," 

"  Let 's  look  at  them," 

Laura  lifted  the  hem  of  her  skirt  and  revealed  the  marvel  and 
absurdity  of  her  feet, 

"  And  they,"  said  Nina,  "  stamped  on  George  Tanqueray." 

"  It  was  n't  half  as  difficult  as  it  looks," 

"  You  're  a  wonderful  Kiddy,  but  you  don't  know  what  pas- 
sion is,  and  you  may  thank  your  stars  you  don't." 


THECKEATOES  115 

"  I  might  know  quite  a  lot,"  said  Laura,  "  if  it  was  n't  for 
Papa.  Papa 's  a  perfect  safeguard  against  passion.  I  know 
beforehand  that  as  long  as  he  's  there,  passion  is  n't  any  good. 
You  see,"  she  explained,  "it's  so  simple.  I  wouldn't  marry 
anybody  who  would  n't  live  with  Papa.  And  nobody  would 
marry  me  if  he  had  to." 

"  I  see.     Is  it  very  bad  ?  " 

"  Pretty  bad.     He  dreams  and  dreams  and  dreams." 

"  Won't  that  ever  be  better  ?  " 

Laura  shook  her  head. 

"  It  may  be  worse.     There  are  things  —  that  I  'm  afraid  of." 

"  What  things.  Kiddy,  what  things  ?  " 

"  Oh  !     I  don't  know " 

"  How  on  earth  do  you  go  on  ?  " 

"  I  shut  my  eyes.     And  I  sit  tight.     And  I  go." 

"  Poor  Kiddy.     You  give  me  a  pain." 

"  I  'm  quite  happy.  I  'm  working  like  ten  horses  to  get 
things  done  while  I  can."  She  smiled  indomitably.  "  I  'm 
glad  Tanks  didn't  care  for  me.  I  couldn't  have  let  him  in 
for  all  these  —  horrors.  As  for  his  marrying  —  I  did  n't  want 
you  to  have  him  because  he  would  n't  have  been  good  for  you, 
but  I  did  want  Jinny  to." 

"  And  you  don't  mind  —  now  ?  " 

"  There  are  so  many  things  to  mind.  It 's  one  nail  driving 
out  another." 

"  It 's  all  the  nails  being  hammered  in  at  once,  into  your 
little  coffin,"  said  Nina.  She  drew  closer  to  her,  she  put  her 
arms  round  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  don't !     Don't  be  sorry  for  me.     I  'm  all  right." 

She  broke  from  Nina's  hand  that  still  caressed  her. 

"  I  am,  really,"  she  said.  "  I  like  Jinny  better  than  anybody 
in  the  world  except  you  and  Tanks.  And  I  like  Nina  better 
than  all  the  Tankses  that  ever  were." 

("Nice  Kiddy,"  Nina  whispered  into  Laura's  hair.) 

"  And  now  Tanks  is  married,  he  can't  take  you  away  from  me. 

"  Nobody  else  can,"  said  Nina.  "  We  've  stuck  together.  And 
we'll  stick." 


XV 

THE  creation  of  Hambleby  moved  on  in  a  procession  of 
superb  chapters.  Jane  Holland  was  once  more  certain 
of  herself,  as  certain  as  she  had  been  in  the  days  when  she 
had  shared  the  splendid  obscurity  of  George  Tanqueray.  Her 
celebrity,  by  removing  her  from  Tanqueray,  had  cut  the  ground 
from  under  her  feet.  So  far  from  being  uplifted  by  it,  she 
had  felt  that  there  must  be  something  wrong  with  her  since 
she  was  celebrated  and  George  Tanqueray  was  not.  It  was 
Tanqueray's  belief  in  her  that  had  kept  her  up.  It  consoled 
her  with  the  thought  that  her  celebrity  was,  after  all,  only  a  dis- 
gusting accident.  For,  through  it  all,  in  spite  of  the  silliness  of 
it,  he  did  believe.  He  swore  by  her.  He  staked  his  own  genius 
upon  hers.  As  long  as  he  believed  in  it  she  could  not  really 
doubt.  But  now  for  the  first  time  since  she  was  celebrated  she 
believed  in  it  herself. 

She  no  longer  thought  of  Tanqueray.  Or,  if  she  did  think 
of  him,  her  thinking  no  longer  roused  in  her  the  old  perverse, 
passionate  jealousy.  She  no  longer  hated  her  genius  because 
he  had  cared  for  it.  She  even  foresaw  that  in  time  she  might 
come  to  love  it  for  that  reason.  But  at  the  moment  she  was 
surrendered  to  it  for  its  own  sake. 

She  was  beginning  to  understand  the  way  of  genius,  of  the 
will  to  create.  She  had  discovered  the  secret  and  the  rhythm 
of  its  life.  It  was  subject  to  the  law  of  the  supersensible.  To 
love  anything  more  than  this  thing  was  to  lose  it.  You  had  to 
come  to  it  clean  from  all  desire,  naked  of  all  possession.  Pla- 
cable to  the  small,  perishing  affections,  it  abhorred  the  shining, 
dangerous  powers,  the  rival  immortalities.  It  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  endure  such  love  as  she  had  had  for  Tanqueray.  It  re- 
joiced in  taking  Tanqueray  away  from  her.     For  the  divine 

116 


THE     CEEATORS  117 

thing  fed  on  suffering,  on  poverty,  solitude,  frustration.  It  took 
toll  of  the  blood  and  nerves  and  of  the  splendour  of  the  passions. 
And  to  those  who  did  not  stay  to  count  the  cost  or  measure  the 
ruin,  it  gave  back  immeasurable,  immortal  things.  It  rewarded 
supremely  the  supreme  surrender. 

Nina  Lempriere  was  right.  Virginity  was  the  law,  the  indis- 
pensable condition. 

The  quiet,  inassailable  knowledge  of  this  truth  had  underlain 
Tanqueray's  most  irritable  utterances.  Tanqueray  had  meant 
that  when  he  said,  "  The  Lord  our  God  is  a  consuming  fire." 

Jane  saw  now  that  there  had  been  something  wrong  with  her 
and  with  all  that  she  had  done  since  the  idea  of  Tanqueray  pos- 
sessed her.  She  could  put  her  finger  on  the  flaws  wrought  by 
the  deflected  and  divided  flame.  She  had  been  caught  and  bound 
in  the  dark  places  of  the  house  of  life,  and  had  worked  there, 
seeing  things  only  by  flashes,  by  the  capricious  impulse  of  the  fire, 
struggling,  between  the  fall  and  rise  of  passion,  to  recover  the 
perfection  of  the  passionless  hour.  She  had  attained  only  the 
semblance  of  perfection,  through  sheer  dexterity,  a  skill  she  had 
in  fitting  together  with  delicate  precision  the  fragments  of  the 
broken  dream.  She  defied  even  Tanqueray  to  tell  the  difference 
between  the  thing  she  had  patched  and  mended  and  the  thing 
she  had  brought  forth  whole. 

She  had  been  wonderful,  standing  there  before  Tanqueray, 
with  her  feet  bound  and  her  hands  raised  above  the  hands  that 
tortured  her,  doing  amazing  things. 

There  was  nothing  amazing  about  Hambleby  or  a  whole  popu- 
lation of  Hamblebys,  given  a  heavenly  silence,  a  virgin  solitude, 
and  a  creator  possessed  by  no  power  except  the  impulse  to  create. 
Within  the  four  walls  of  her  room,  and  in  the  quiet  Square, 
nothing  moved,  nothing  breathed  but  Hambleby.  His  presence 
destroyed  those  poignant,  almost  tangible  memories  of  Tanque- 
ray, those  fragments  of  Tanqueray  that  adhered  to  the  things 
that  he  had  looked  upon  and  touched.  She  was  no  longer  afraid 
of  these  things  or  of  the  house  that  contained  them.  She  no 
longer  felt  any  terror  of  her  solitude,  any  premonition  of  trouble 
as  she  entered  the  place.     Away  from  it  she  found  herself  long- 


118  THECREATOES 

ing  for  its  stillness,  for  the  very  sight  of  the  walls  that  folded 
her  in  this  incomparable  peace. 

She  had  never  known  what  peace  was  until  now.  If  she  had 
she  would  have  been  aware  that  her  state  was  too  exquisite  to 
last.  She  had  not  allowed  for  the  flight  of  the  days  and  for  the 
inevitable  return  of  people,  of  the  dreadful,  clever  little  people. 
By  Xovember  they  had  all  come  back.  They  had  found  her  be- 
hind her  barricades.  They  approached,  some  tentatively,  some 
insistently,  some  with  an  ingenuity  no  foresight  could  defeat. 
One  by  one  they  came.  First  Caro  Bickersteth,  and  Caro  once 
let  in,  it  was  impossible  to  keep  out  the  rest.  For  Caro  believed 
in  knowing  the  right  people,  and  in  the  right  people  knowing 
each  other.  It  was  Caro,  last  year,  who  had  opened  the  in- 
numerable doors  by  which  they  had  streamed  in,  converging  upon 
Jane.  And  they  were  more  terrible  than  they  had  been  last  year, 
braced  as  they  were  by  their  sense  of  communion,  of  an  intimacy 
so  established  that  it  ignored  reluctance  and  refusal.  They  had 
given  introductions  to  each  other,  and  behind  them,  on  the  hor- 
rific verge,  Jane  saw  the  heaving,  hovering  multitudes  of  the  as 
yet  unintroduced. 

By  December  she  realized  again  that  she  was  celebrated;  by 
January  that  she  was  hunted  down,  surrounded,  captured,  and 
alone. 

For  last  year,  when  it  all  began,  she  had  had  George  Tan- 
queray.  Tanqueray  had  stood  between  her  and  the  dreadful  lit- 
tle people.  His  greatness  sheltered  her  from  their  dreadfulness, 
their  cleverness,  their  littleness.  He  had  softened  all  the  hor- 
rors of  her  pitiless  celebrity,  so  that  she  had  not  felt  herself  half 
so  celebrated  as  she  was. 

And  now,  six  months  after  George's  marriage,  it  was  borne 
in  upon  her  with  appalling  certitude  that  George  was  necessary 
to  her,  and  that  he  was  not  there. 

He  had  not  even  written  to  her  since  he  married. 

Then,  as  if  he  had  a  far-off  sense  of  her  need  of  him  and  of 
her  agony,  he  wrote.  Marriage  had  not  destroyed  his  super- 
natural sympathy.  Absolutely  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  he 
wrote.     It  was  on  the  day  after  New  Year's  day,  and  if  Jane 


THE     C  R  E  A  TORS  119 

had  behaved  as  if  nothing  had  happened  she  would  have  written 
to  him.  But  because  she  needed  him,  she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  write. 

"  My  dear  Jinny,"  he  wrote,  "  I  have  n't  heard  from  you  for 
centuries."  (He  must  have  expected,  then,  to  hear.)  "  WTiat's 
the  matter  ?     Is  it  Book  ?  " 

And  Jane  wrote  back,  "  It  is.  Will  you  look  at  it  ?  "  "  Noth- 
ing would  please  me  better,"  said  Tanqueray  by  return.  Not  a 
word  about  his  wife.  Jane  sent  Hambleby  (by  return  also)  and 
regretted  it  the  moment  after. 

In  two  days  a  telegram  followed.  "  Coming  to  see  you  to-day 
at  four.     Tanqueray." 

Absolutely  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  he  came.  Her  blood 
sang  a  song  in  her  brain ;  her  heart  and  all  her  pulses  beat  with 
the  joy  and  tumult  of  his  coming.  But  when  he  was  there, 
when  he  had  flung  himself  into  his  old  place  by  the  fireside  and 
sat  smiling  at  her  across  the  hearthrug,  of  a  sudden  her  brain 
was  on  the  watch,  and  her  pulses  and  her  heart  were  still, 

"  Wliat  's  been  the  matter  ?  "  he  said.     "  You  look  worn  out." 

"  I  am  worn  out." 

"With  Book,  Jinny?" 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "  No.  With  people,  George. 
Everlasting  people.  I  have  to  work  like  ten  horses,  and  when 
I  think  I  've  got  a  spare  minute,  just  to  rest  in,  some  one  takes 
it.     Look  there.     And  there.     And  there." 

His  eyes  followed  her  wild  gesture.  Innumerable  little  notes 
were  stacked  on  Jinny's  writing-table  and  lay  littered  among 
her  manuscripts.  Invitation  cards,  theatre  tickets,  telegrams 
were  posted  in  every  available  space  about  the  room,  schedules  of 
the  tax  the  world  levies  on  celebrity. 

Tanqueray's  brows  crumpled  as  he  surveyed  the  scene. 

"  Before  I  can  write  a  line  of  Hambleby,"  said  Jinny  —  "  one 
little  line  —  I  've  got  to  send  answers  to  all  that." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said  sternly,  "  that  you  dream 
of  answering  ?  " 

"  If  it  could  only  end  in  dreaming." 

He  groaned.  "Here  have  I  been  away  from  you,  how  long? 
8 


120  THECEEATOES 

Six  months,  is  it?  Only  six  months,  Jinny,  Just  long  enough 
to  get  married  in,  and  you  go  and  do  the  very  things  I  told  you 
not  to.  You  're  not  to  be  trusted  by  yourself  for  a  single  min- 
ute.    I  told  you  what  it  would  be  like." 

"  George  dear,  can't  you  do  something  ?     Can't  you  save  me  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Jinny,  I  've  tried  my  level  best  to  save  you.  But 
you  would  n't  he  saved." 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  "  you  don't  know  how  I  've  hated  it." 

"  Have  n't  you  liked  any  of  it." 

"  No,"  she  said  slowly.     "  Not  any  of  it." 

"  The  praise,  Jinny,  did  n't  you  like  the  praise  ?  Were  n't  you 
just  a  little  bit  intoxicated  ?  " 

"Did  I  look  intoxicated?" 

"  No-no.     You  carried  it  fairly  well." 

"  Just  at  first,  perhaps,  just  at  first  it  goes  to  your  head  a  bit. 
Then  you  get  sick  of  it,  and  you  don't  want  ever  to  have  any 
more  of  it  again.  And  all  the  time  it  makes  you  feel  such  a 
silly  ass." 

"  Yon  were  certainly  not  cut  out  for  a  celebrity." 

"  But  the  awful  thing  is  that  when  you  've  swallowed  all  the 
praise  you  can't  get  rid  of  the  people.  They  come  swarming 
and  tearing  and  clutching  at  you,  and  bizzing  in  your  ear  when 
you  want  to  be  quiet.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  being  buried  alive 
under  awful  avalanches  of  people." 

"  I  told  you  you  would  be." 

"  If,"  she  cried,  "  they  'd  only  kill  you  outright.  But  they 
throttle  you.  You  fight  for  breath.  They  let  go  and  then 
they  're  at  you  again.  They  come  telling  you  how  wonderful 
you  are  and  how  they  adore  your  work;  and  not  one  of  them 
cares  a  rap  about  it.  It  they  did  they  'd  leave  you  alone  to 
do  it." 

"  Poor  Jinny,"  he  murmured. 

"  Why  am  I  marked  out  for  this  ?  Why  is  it,  George  ?  Why 
should  they  take  me  and  leave  you  alone  ?  " 

"  It's  your  emotional  quality  that  fetches  them.  But  it's  in- 
conceivable how  you  've  been  fetched." 

"  I  wanted  to  see  what  the  creatures  were  like.     Oh,  George, 


THE     C  R  E  A  1^  0  K  S  121 

that  I  should  be  so  punished  when  I  only  wanted  to  see  what 
they  were  like." 

"  Poor  Jinny.     Poor  gregarious  Jinny." 
She  shook  her  head. 

"  It  was  so  insidious.  I  can't  think,  I  really  can't  think  how 
it  began." 

"  It  began  with  those  two  spluttering  imbecilities  you  asked 
me  to  dine  with." 

"  Oh  no,  poor  things,  they  have  n't  hurt  me.  They  've  gone 
on  to  dine  at  other  tables.  They  're  in  it,  too.  They  're  torn 
and  devoured.     They  dine  and  are  dined  on." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  must  stop  it." 

"  If  I  could.     If  I  could  only  break  loose  and  get  away." 

"  Get  away.     What  keeps  you  ?  " 

"  Everything  keeps  me." 

"  By  everything  you  mean ?  " 

"  London.  London  does  something  to  your  brain.  It  jogs 
it  and  shakes  it;  and  all  the  little  ideas  that  had  gone  to  sleep 
in  their  little  cells  get  up  and  begin  to  dance  as  if  they  heard 
music.  Everything  wakes  them  up,  the  streams  of  people,  the 
eyes  and  the  faces.  It's  you  and  Nina  and  Laura.  It's  ten 
thousand  things.     Can't  you  understand,  George  ?  " 

"  It 's  playing  the  devil  with  your  nerves,  Jinny." 

"  Not  when  I  go  about  in  it  alone.     That 's  the  secret." 

"  It  looks  as  if  you  were  alone  a  lot,  does  n't  it  ?  "  He  glanced 
significantly  around  him, 

"  Oh  —  that !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that,     Will  you  really  let  me  save  you  ?  " 

"  Can  you  ?  " 

"  I  can,  if  I  do  it  my  own  way." 

"  I  don't  care  how  you  do  it." 

"  Good."  He  rose.  "  Is  there  anything  in  those  letters  you 
mind  my  seeing  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word." 

He  sat  down  at  her  writing-table  and  stirred  the  litter  with 
rapid,  irritable  hands.  In  two  minutes  he  had  gathered  into  a 
heap  all  the  little  notes  of  invitation.     He  then  went  round  the 


122  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S 

room  collecting  the  tickets  and  the  cards  and  the  telegrams. 
These  he  added  to  his  heap. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  going,"  he  said,  "  to  destroy  this  hornets'  nest  you  've 
raised  about  you." 

He  took  it  up,  carrying  it  gingerly,  as  if  it  stung,  and  dropped 
it  on  the  fire. 

"  George "  she  cried,  and  sat  looking  at  him  as  he  stirred 

the  pile  to  flame  and  beat  down  its  ashes  into  the  grate.     She 
was  paralyzed,  fascinated  by  the  bold  splendour  of  his  deed. 

"  There/'  he  said.     "  Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  Yes."  She  smiled.  "  You  can  tell  me  what  I  'm  to  say  to 
my  stepmother." 

"Your  stepmother?" 

"  She  wants  to  know  if  I  '11  have  Effy." 

"Effy?" 
•  "  My  half-sister." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  think,  George,  I  may  have  to  have  her." 

"Have  her?  It's  you  who'll  be  had.  Don't  I  tell  you 
you  're  always  being  had  ?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her  half-tenderl}^  smiling  at  the  pathos, 
the  absurd  pathos  of  her  face.  He  was  the  same  George  Tan- 
queray  that  he  had  always  been,  except  he  was  no  longer  rest- 
less, no  longer  excited. 

"Jinny,"  he  said,  "if  you  begin  to  gather  round  you  a 
family,  or  even  the  rudiments  of  a  family,  you  're  done  for. 
And  so  is  Hambleby." 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Can  you  afford  to  have  him  done  for  ?  " 

"  If  it  would  help  them,  George." 

"  You  want  to  help  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  But  you  can't  help  them  without  Hambleby.  It 's  he  who 
goes  out  and  rakes  in  the  shekels,  not  you." 

"  Ye-cs.     I  know  he  does." 


THECEEATORS  123 

"Apart  from  Hambleby  what  are  you?     A  simple  idiot." 

Jane's  face  expressed  her  profound  and  contrite  persuasion 
of  this  truth. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  have  you  written  to  the  lady  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Then  sit  down  and  write  to  her  now  exactly  what  I  tell  you. 
It  will  be  a  beautiful  letter;  in  your  manner,  not  mine." 

He  stood  over  her  and  dictated  the  letter.  It  had  a  firmness 
of  intention  that  no  letter  of  Jinny's  to  her  people  had  hitherto 
expressed,  but  in  all  other  respects  it  was  a  masterly  reproduc- 
tion of  Jinny's  style. 

"  I  am  going  to  post  this  myself,"  he  said,  "  because  I  can't 
trust  you  for  a  minute." 

He  ran  out  bareheaded  and  came  back  again. 

"  You  can't  do  without  me,"  he  said,  "  you  can't  do  without 
me  for  a  minute." 

He  sat  down  in  his  old  place,  and  began,  always  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  "  And  now  about  Hambleby.  Another  day, 
Jinny,  and  I  should  have  been  too  late  to  save  him." 

"  But,  George,  it 's  awful.  They  '11  never  understand.  They 
don't  realize  the  deadly  grind.  They  see  me  moving  in  scenes 
of  leisured  splendour." 

"  Tell  them  you  don't  move  in  scenes  of  leisured  anything." 

"  The  scenes  I  do  move  in !  I  was  so  happy  once,  when  I 
had  n't  any  money,  when  nobody  but  you  knew  anything  about 
me." 

"  Were  you  really.  Jinny  ?  " 

"Yes.  And  before  that,  when  I  was  quite  alone.  Think  of 
the  hours,  the  days,  the  months  I  had  to  myself." 

"  Then  the  curse  fell,  and  jou  became  celeb Even  then, 

with  a  little  strength  of  mind,  you  might  have  saved  yourself. 
Do  you  think,  if  I  became  celebrated,  I  should  give  myself  up 
to  be  devoured  ? " 

"  If  I  could  only  not  be  celebrated,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  think 
I  can  ever  creep  back  into  my  hole  again  and  be  obscure  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  '11  write  a  book  that  nobody  but  I  can  read." 


124  THECREATOES 

"Why,  isn't  Hambleby 


"  Not  he.  He  '11  only  make  things  worse  for  you.  Ten  times 
worse," 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  He  may  make  you  popular." 

"  Is  that  what  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  think  a  lot  of  him.     So  do  you." 

He  smiled  his  old  teasing  and  tormenting  smile. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  're  not  just  a  little  bit  in  love  with  that 
little  banker's  clerk  ?  " 

"  I  was  never  in  love  with  a  banker's  clerk  in  my  life.  I  've 
never  even  seen  one  except  in  banks  and  tubes  and  places." 

"  I  don't  care.  It 's  the  way  you  '11  be  had.  It 's  the  way 
you  '11  be  had  by  Hambleby  if  you  don't  look  out.  It 's  the 
way,"  he  said,  "  that 's  absolutely  forbidden  to  any  artist. 
You  've  got  to  know  Hambleby  outside  and  inside,  as  God  Al- 
mighty knows  him." 

"  Well  ?  "  Jinny's  mind  was  working  dangerously  near  cer- 
tain personal  matters.  George  himself  seemed  to  be  approach- 
ing the  same  borders.  He  plunged  in  an  abyss  of  meditation 
and  emerged. 

"  You  can't  know  people,  you  can't  possibly  hope  to  know 
them,  if  you  once  allow  yourself  to  fall  in  love  with  them." 

"  Can't  you  ?  "  she  said  quietly. 

"  No,  you  can't.  If  God  Almighty  had  allowed  himself  to 
fall  in  love  with  you  and  me,  Jinny,  he  could  n't  have  made  us 
all  alive  and  kicking.  You  must  be  God  Almighty  to  Ham- 
bleby or  he  won't  kick." 

"Doesn't  he  kick?" 

"  Oh,  Lord,  yes.  You  have  n't  gone  in  deep  enough  to  stop 
him.  I  'm  only  warning  you  against  a  possible  danger.  It 's 
always  a  possible  danger  when  I  'm  not  there  to  look  after  you." 

He  rose.  "  Anything,"  he  said,  "  is  possible  when  I  'm  not 
there." 

She  rose  also.     Their  hands  and  their  eyes  met. 

"  That 's  it,"  she  said,  "  you  were  n't  there,  and  you  won't  be." 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S  125 

''You're  wrong,"  said  he,  "  I  've  always  been  there  when  you 
wanted  me." 

He  turned  to  go  and  came  back  again. 

"  If  I  don't  like  to  see  you  celebrated,  Jinny,  it 's  because  I 
want  to  see  you  immortal." 

"  You  don't  want  to  be  alone  in  your  immortality  ?  " 

"  No.     I  don't  want  to  be  alone  —  in  my  immortality." 

With  that  he  left  her.  And  he  had  not  said  a  word  about  his 
wife. 

Neither  for  that  matter  had  Jane.  She  wondered  why  she 
had  not. 

"  At  any  rate/'  she  thought, '"  I  have  n't  hurt  his  immortality." 


XVI 

A  WEEK  after  his  visit  to  Jane  Holland,  Tanqueray  was 
settled,  as  he  called  it,  in  rooms  in  Bloomsbury.  He  had 
got  all  his  books  and  things  sent  down  from  Hampstead,  to  stay 
in  Bloomsbury  for  ever,  because  Bloomsbury  was  cheap. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  think  what  Eose  was  to  do  with 
herself  in  Bloomsbury  or  he  with  Eose.  He  had  brought  her  up 
out  of  the  little  village  of  Sussex  where  they  had  lodged,  in  a 
farmhouse,  ever  since  their  marriage.  Eose  had  been  happy 
down  in  Sussex. 

And  for  the  first  few  weeks  Tanqueray  had  been  happy  too. 
He  was  never  tired  of  playing  with  Eose,  caressing  Eose,  talk- 
ing nonsense  to  Eose,  teasing  and  tormenting  Eose  for  ever. 
The  more  so  as  she  provoked  him  by  turning  an  imperturbable 
face  to  the  attack.  He  liked  to  lie  with  his  head  in  Eose's  lap, 
while  Eose's  fingers  played  with  his  hair,  stirring  up  new  ideas 
to  torment  her  with.  He  was  content,  for  the  first  few  weeks,  to 
be  what  he  had  become,  a  sane  and  happy  animal,  mated  with 
an  animal,  a  dear  little  animal,  superlatively  happy  and  incor- 
ruptibly  sane. 

He  might  have  gone  on  like  that  for  an  interminable  number 
of  weeks  but  that  the  mere  rest  from  all  intellectual  labour  had 
a  prodigiously  recuperative  effect.  His  genius,  just  because  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  it,  began  with  characteristic  perversity 
to  worry  him  again.  It  would  n't  let  him  alone.  It  made  him 
more  restless  than  Eose  had  ever  made  him.  It  led  him  into 
ways  that  were  so  many  subtle  infidelities  to  Eose.  It  tore  him 
from  Eose  and  took  him  out  with  it  for  long  tramps  beyond  the 
Downs ;  wherever  they  went  it  was  always  too  far  for  Eose  to  go. 
He  would  try,  basely,  to  get  off  without  her  seeing  him,  and 
managed  it,  for  Eose  was  so  sensible  that  she  never  saw. 

Tlien  it  made  him  begin  a  bonk.     He  wrote  all  morning  in  a 

12G 


THE     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S  127 

room  by  himself.  All  afternoon  he  walked  by  himself.  Ail 
evening  he  lay  with  his  head  in  Kose's  lap,  too  tired  even  to 
tease  her. 

But,  because  she  had  Tanqueray's  head  to  nurse  in  the  even- 
ings. Rose  had  been  happy  down  in  Sussex.  She  went  about 
the  farm  and  stroked  all  the  animals.  She  borrowed  the  baby 
at  the  farm  and  nursed  it  half  the  day.  And  in  the  evening  she 
nursed  Tanqueray's  head.  Tanqueray's  head  was  never  bothered 
to  think  what  Rose  was  doing  when  she  was  not  nursing  it. 

Then,  because  his  book  made  him  think  of  Jane  Holland,  he 
sat  down  one  day  and  wrote  that  letter  to  Jinny. 

He  did  not  know  that  it  was  because  of  Jinny  that  he  had 
come  back  to  live  in  Bloomsbury. 

They  had  been  a  month  in  Bloomsbury,  in  a  house  in  Torring- 
ton  Square.  Rose  was  sitting  alone  in  the  ground-floor  room 
that  looked  straight  on  to  the  pavement.  Sitting  with  her  hands 
before  her  waiting  for  Tanqueray  to  come  to  lunch.  Tanqueray 
was  up-stairs,  two  flights  away,  in  his  study,  writing.  She  was 
afraid  to  go  and  tell  him  lunch  was  ready.  She  had  gone  up 
once  that  morning  to  see  that  he  did  n't  let  his  fire  out,  and  he 
had  n't  liked  it ;  so  she  waited.  There  was  a  dish  of  cutlets 
keeping  hot  for  him  on  the  hearth.  Presently  he  would  come 
doM'n,  and  she  would  have  the  pleasure  of  putting  the  cutlets  on 
the  table  and  seeing  him  eat  them.  It  was  about  the  only  pleas- 
ure she  could  count  on  now. 

For  to  Rose,  as  she  sat  there,  the  thought  had  come  that  for 
all  she  saw  of  her  husband  she  might  as  well  not  be  married  to 
him.  She  had  been  better  off  at  Hampstead  when  she  waited 
on  him  hand  and  foot;  when  she  was  doing  things  for  him  half 
the  day;  when,  more  often  than  not,  he  had  a  minute  to  spare 
for  a  word  or  a  look  that  set  her  heart  fairly  dancing.  She  had 
agreed  to  their  marriage  chiefly  because  it  would  enable  her  to 
wait  on  him  and  nobody  but  him,  to  wait  on  him  all  day  long. 

And  he  had  said  to  her,  first  thing,  as  they  dined  together  on 
their  wedding-day,  that  he  was  n't  going  to  let  his  wife  wait 
on  him.  That  was  why  they  lived  in  rooms  (since  he  could  n't 
afford  a  house  and  servant),  that  she  might  be  waited  on.     He 


128  THE     CREATORS 

had  hated  to  see  her  working,  he  said;  and  now  she  wouldn't 
have  to  work.  No,  never  again.  And  when  she  asked  him  if 
he  liked  to  see  her  sitting  with  her  hands  before  her,  doing  noth- 
ing, he  said  that  was  precisely  what  he  did  like.  And  it  had 
been  all  very  well  so  long  as  he  had  been  there  to  see  her.  But 
now  he  was  n't  ever  there. 

It  was  worse  than  it  was  down  in  Sussex.  All  morning  he 
shut  himself  up  in  his  study  to  write.  After  lunch  he  went  up 
there  again  to  smoke.  Then  he  would  go  out  by  himself,  and 
he  might  or  might  not  come  in  for  dinner.  All  evening  he  shut 
himself  up  again  and  wrote.  At  midnight  or  after  he  would 
come  to  her,  worn  out,  and  sleep,  lying  like  a  dead  man  at  her 
side. 

She  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  the  postman's  knock  and 
the  flapping  fall  of  a  letter  in  the  letter-box.  It  was  for  Tan- 
queray,  and  she  took  it  up  to  him  and  laid  it  beside  him  without 
a  word.  To  speak  would  have  been  fatal.  He  had  let  his  fire 
go  out  (she  knew  he  would)  ;  so,  while  he  was  reading  his  letter, 
she  knelt  down  by  the  hearth  and  made  it  up  again.  She  went 
to  work  very  softly,  but  he  heard  her. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there?  "  he  said. 

"  I  thought,"  said  she,  "  I  was  as  quiet  as  a  mouse." 

"  So  you  were.  Just  about.  A  horrid  little  mouse  that  keeps 
scratching  at  the  wainscot  and  creeping  about  the  room  and 
startling  me." 

"Do  I  startle  you?" 

"You  do.     Horribly." 

Rose  put  down  the  poker  without  a  sound. 

He  had  finished  his  letter  and  had  not  begun  writing  again. 
He  was  only  looking  at  his  letter.  So  Rose  remarked  that  lunch 
was  ready.  He  put  the  letter  into  a  drawer,  and  they  went 
down. 

About  half-way  through  lunch  he  spoke. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  you  must  keep  out  of  the  room  when 
I  'm  writing." 

"  You  're  always  writing  now." 

Yes.     He  was  always  writing  now;  because  he  did  not  want 


THECEEATORS  129 

to  talk  to  Eose  and  it  was  the  best  way  of  keeping  her  out  of  the 
room.  But  as  yet  he  did  not  know  that  was  why,  any  more 
than  he  knew  that  he  had  come  to  live  in  London  because  he 
wanted  to  talk  to  Jinny.  The  letter  in  his  drawer  up-stairs  was 
from  Jinny,  asking  him  if  she  might  not  come  and  see  his  wife. 
He  was  not  sure  that  he  wanted  her  to  come  and  see  his  wife. 
Why  should  she? 

"  You  '11  'urt  your  brain,"  his  wife  was  saying,  "  if  you  keep 
on  writ-writin',  lettin'  the  best  of  the  day  go  by  before  you  put 
your  foot  out  of  doors.  It  would  do  you  all  the  good  in  the 
world  if  you  was  to  come  sometimes  for  a  walk  with  me " 

It  all  went  in  at  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other. 

So  all  morning,  all  afternoon,  all  evening,  Eose  sat  by  herself 
in  the  room  looking  on  the  pavement.  She  had  nothing  to  do 
in  this  house  that  did  n't  belong  to  them.  When  she  had  helped 
the  little  untidy  servant  to  clear  away  the  breakfast  things; 
when  she  had  dusted  their  sitting-room  and  bedroom ;  when  she 
had  gone  out  and  completed  her  minute  marketings,  she  had 
nothing  to  do.  N"othing  to  do  for  herself ;  worse  than  all,  noth- 
ing to  do  for  Tanqueray.  She  would  hunt  in  drawers  for  things 
of  his  to  mend,  going  over  his  socks  again  and  again  in  the 
hope  of  finding  a  hole  in  one  of  them.  Eose,  who  loved  taking 
care  of  people,  who  was  born  in  the  world  and  fashioned  by  Na- 
ture to  that  end,  Eose  had  nothing  to  take  care  of.  You 
could  n't  take  care  of  Tanqueray. 

Sometimes  she  found  herself  wishing  that  he  were  ill.  Not 
dangerously  ill,  but  ill  enough  to  be  put  to  bed  and  taken  care 
of.  Not  that  Eose  was  really  aware  of  this  cruel  hope  of  hers. 
It  came  to  her  rather  as  a  picture  of  Tanqueray,  lying  in  his 
sleeping-suit,  adorably  helpless,  and  she  nursing  him.  Her 
heart  yearned  to  that  vision. 

For  she  saw  visions.  From  perpetual  activities  of  hands  and 
feet,  from  running  up  and  down  stairs,  from  sweeping  and  dust- 
ing, from  the  making  of  beds,  the  washing  of  clothes  and  china, 
she  had  passed  to  the  life  of  sedentary  contemplation.  She  was 
always  thinking.  Sometimes  she  thought  of  nothing  but  Tan- 
queray.    Sometimes  she  thought  of  Aunt  and  Uncle,  of  Minnie 


130  THE     CREATORS 

and  the  seven  little  dogs.  She  could  see  them  of  a  Sunday  even- 
ing, sitting  in  the  basement  parlour,  Aunt  in  her  black  cashmere 
with  the  gimp  trimmings,  Uncle  in  his  tight  broadcloth  with 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  Mrs.  Smoker  sleeping  with  her  nose 
on  the  fender.  Mr.  Robinson  would  come  in  sometimes,  dressed 
as  Mr.  Robinson  could  dress,  and  sit  down  at  the  little  piano  and 
sing  in  his  beautiful  voice,  "  'Ark,  'Ark,  my  Soul,"  and  "  The 
Church's  one  Foundation,"  while  Joey  howled  at  all  his  top 
notes,  and  the  smoke  came  curling  out  of  Uncle's  pipe,  and  Rose 
sat  very  still  dreaming  of  Mr.  Tanqueray.  (She  could  never 
hear  "Hark,  Hark,  my  Soul,"  now,  without  thinking  of  Tan- 
queray. ) 

Sometimes  she  thought  of  that  other  life,  further  back,  in  her 
mistress's  house  at  Fleet,  all  the  innocent  service  and  affection, 
the  careful,  exquisite  tending  of  the  delicious  person  of  Baby, 
her  humble,  dutiful  intimacy  with  Baby's  mother.  She  would 
shut  her  eyes  and  feel  Baby's  hands  on  her  neck,  and  the  wound- 
ing pressure  of  his  body  against  her  breasts.  And  then  Rose 
dreamed  another  dream. 

She  no  longer  cared  to  sew  now,  but  when  Tanqueray's  mend- 
ing was  done,  she  would  sit  for  hours  with  her  hands  before  her, 
dreaming. 

He  found  her  thus  occupied  one  evening  when  he  had  come 
home  after  seeing  Jane.  After  seeing  Jane  he  was  always  rather 
more  aware  of  his  wife's  existence  than  he  had  been,  so  that  he 
was  struck  now  by  the  strange  dejection  of  her  figure.  He  came 
to  her  and  stood,  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece  and  looking 
down  at  her,  as  he  had  stood  once  and  looked  down  at  Jane. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It 's  nothing.     I  've  a  cold  in  me  head." 

"  Cold  in  your  head  !  You  've  been  crying.  There  's  a  blob 
on  your  dress."  (He  kissed  her.)  "What  are  you  crying 
about?" 

"  I  'm  not  cryin'  about  anything." 

"  But  —  you  're  crying."     It  gave  him  pain  to  see  Rose  crying. 

"  If  I  am  it 's  the  first  time  I  've  done  it." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  " 


THE     CREATORS  131 

"  Certain.  I  never  was  one  for  cryin',  nor  for  bein'  seen  cry. 
It 's  just  —  it 's  just  sittin'  here  with  me  "ands  before  me,  havin' 
nothing  to  do." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  n't  very  much  for  you  to  do." 

"  I  've  done  all  there  is  and  a  great  deal  there  is  n't." 

"  I  say,  shall  we  go  to  the  play  to-night  ?  " 

She  smiled  with  pleasure  at  his  thought  for  her.  Then  she 
shook  her  head,  "  It 's  not  plays  I  want  —  it 's  work.  I  'd  like 
to  have  me  hands  full.     If  we  had  a  little  house " 

"  Oh  no.     No  —  no  —  no."     He  looked  terrified. 

"  It  would  come  a  lot  cheaper.  Only  a  little  house,  where  I 
could  do  all  the  work." 

"  I  've  told  you  before  I  won't  let  you." 

"  With  a  girl,"  she  pleaded,  "  to  scrub.  A  little  house  up 
Hampstead  way." 

"  I  don't  want  to  live  up  Hampstead  way." 

"  If  you  mean  Uncle  and  Aunt,"  she  said,  "  they  would  n't 
think  of  intrudin'.  We  settled  that,  me  and  Uncle.  I  'd  be  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long." 

"  You  're  7iot  ?     And  the  day  is  very  long,  is  it?  " 

He  kissed  her,  first  on  her  mouth  and  then  on  the  lobe  of  the 
ear  that  was  next  to  him. 

"  Kissin'  's  all  very  well,"  said  Rose.  "  You  never  kissed  me  at 
Hampstead,  and  you  don't  know  how  happy  I  was  there,  Doin' 
things  for  you." 

"  1  don't  want  things  done  for  me." 

"  No.     I  wish  you  did." 

"  And,  Rose,  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  a  house ;  to  be 
tied  to  a  house ;  to  have  anything  to  do  with  a  house." 

"  Would  it  worry  you  ?  " 

"  Abominably.     And  think  of  the  horrors  of  moving !  " 

"  I  'd  move  you,"  said  Rose. 

"  I  could  n't.  Look  here.  It  would  kill  that  book.  I  must 
have  peace.  This  is  a  beastly  hole,  I  know,  but  there  's  peace 
in  it.     You  don't  know  what  that  damned  book  is." 

She  gave  up  the  idea  of  a  house ;  and  seven  months  after  her 
marriage,  she  fell  into  a  melancholy. 


133  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S 

Sometimes,  now,  on  a  fine  afternoon,  she  would  go  out  into 
the  streets  and  look  listlessly  through  shop-windows  at  hats  and 
gowns  and  all  the  pretty  things  she  would  have  thought  it  sin 
so  much  as  to  desire  to  wear.  Where  Rose  lingered  longest  was 
outside  those  heavenly  places  where  you  saw  far  off  a  flutter  of 
white  in  the  windows,  which  turned  out  to  be  absurd,  tiny,  short- 
waisted  frocks  and  diminutive  under-garments,  and  little  heart- 
rending shoes;  things  of  desire,  things  of  impossible  dream,  to 
be  approached  with  a  sacred  dumbness  of  the  heart. 

The  toy-shops,  too,  they  carried  her  away  in  a  flight ;  so  that 
Rose  caught  herself  saying  to  herself,  "  Some  day,  perhaps,  I 
shall  be  here  buying  one  of  them  fur  animals,  or  that  there 
Noah's  ark." 

Then,  p'raps,  she  said  to  her  very  inmost  self,  things  might 
be  different. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  up  to  Hampstead,  ridin',  as  she 
phrased  it,  in  a  bus,  to  see  her  Aunt  and  Uncle  and  a  friend  she 
had,  Polly  White.  Not  often ;  for  Rose  did  not  hold  with  gad- 
ding about  when  you  had  a  husband ;  besides,  she  was  afraid  of 
Aunt  asking  her,  "  Wot's  'E  doin'?  "  (By  always  referring  to 
Tanqueray  as  " 'E,"  Mrs.  Eldred  evaded  the  problem  of  what 
she  was  expected  to  call  the  gentleman  who  had  so  singularly 
married  her  husband's  niece.)  Most  of  all  Rose  dreaded  the 
question,  "Wen  is  'E  goin'  to  take  a  little  'ouse?"  For  in 
Rose's  world  it  is  somewhat  of  a  reflection  on  a  married  man  if 
he  is  not  a  householder. 

And  last  time  Mrs.  Eldred's  inquiries  had  taken  a  more  ter- 
rible and  searching  form.  "  Is  'E  lookin'  for  anything  to  do  be- 
sides 'Is  writin'?"  Rose  had  said  then  that  no,  he  needn't, 
they  'd  got  enough ;  an  answer  that  brought  Mrs.  Eldred  round 
to  her  point  again.     "  Then  why  does  n't  'E  take  a  little  'ouse  ?  " 

Sometimes  Polly  White  came  to  tea  in  Bloomsbury.  Very 
seldom,  though,  and  only  when  Tanqueray  was  not  there.  Rose 
knew  and  Polly  knew  that  her  friends  had  to  keep  away  when 
her  husband  was  about.  As  for  Ms  friends,  she  had  never  caught 
a  sight  of  them. 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  when  Rose  had  given  up  wondering 


THE     C  K  E  A  T  0  E  S  133 

whether  things  would  ever  be  different,  Tanqueray,  instead  of 
going  up-stairs  as  usual,  sat  down  and  lit  a  pipe  as  if  he  were 
going  to  spend  the  evening  with  her.  Rose  did  not  know 
whether  she  would  be  allowed  to  talk.  He  seemed  thoughtful, 
and  Eose  knew  better  than  to  interrupt  him  when  he  was  think- 
ing. 

"  Eose,"  he  said  at  last,  apparently  as  the  result  of  his  medita- 
tion, "  a  friend  of  mine  Avants  to  call  on  you  to-morrow." 

"  To  call  on  me  ?  " 

"  On  you,  certainly." 

"  Shall  I  have  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  She,  Eose,  she.     Yes ;  I  think  you  '11  have  to  see  her." 

"  I  did  n't  know,"  said  Eose,  "  you  had  a  friend." 

She  meant  what  she  would  have  called  a  lady  friend. 

"  I  've  dozens,"  said  Tanqueray,  knowing  what  she  meant. 

"  You  have  n't  told  me  this  one's  name  yet." 

"  Her  name  is  Jane  Holland." 

It  was  Eose  who  became  thoughtful  now. 

"  'As  she  anything  to  do  with  the  Jane  Holland  that 's  on 
those  books  of  yours  ?  " 

"  She  wrote  'em." 

"  You  did  n't  tell  me  you  knew  her." 

"  Did  n't  I  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  that 's  how  you  knew  her." 

"  Yes.     That 's  how  I  knew  her." 

"  \Miat  made  'er  take  to  writin'  ?     Is  she  married  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  see,"  said  Eose,  almost  as  if  she  really  saw.  "  And  wot 
shall  I  've  to  do  ?  " 

"  You  '11  write  a  pretty  little  note  to  her  and  ask  her  to  tea." 

"  Oh  dear  !  " 

"  You  need  n't  be  afraid  of  her." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid ;  but  goodness  knows  what  I  shall  find  to 
talk  about." 

"  You  can  talk  about  me." 

"I  suppose  I  shall  'ave  to  talk  to  her?" 

"  Well  —  yes.     Or  —  I  can  talk  to  her." 


134  THE     C  Ft  E  A  TORS 

Eose  became  very  thoughtful  indeed. 

"Wot's  she  like?" 

He  considered.  Wliat  was  Jinny  like?  Like  nothing  on 
earth  that  Eose  had  ever  seen. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Eose,  "  to  look  at." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  what  she  's  like." 

"Is  she  like  Miss  Kentish?  You  remember  Miss  Kentish  at 
Hampstead  ?  " 

He  smiled.     "  Not  in  the  very  least." 

Eose  looked  depressed.  "  Is  she  like  Mrs.  'Enderson  down 
at  Elect  ?  " 

"  That 's  nearer.  But  she  's  not  like  Mrs.  Henderson.  She  's 
—  she  's  charming." 

"  So  's  Mrs.  'Enderson." 

"  It 's  another  sort  of  charm,  I  don't  even  know  whether 
you  'd  see  it." 

"  Ah,  you  should  have  seen  Mrs.  'Enderson  with  Baby.  They 
was  a  perfect  picture." 

"  That 's  it.  I  can't  see  Miss  Holland  with  Baby.  I  can  only 
see  her  by  herself." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Eose,  "  she  was  married.  Because,  if  she  'ad 
been,  there  might  be  something " 

"Something?" 

"Well —  to  talk  about." 

It  was  his  turn  to  say  "  I  see." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  thus  closing  the  sitting, 
and  settled  down  to  a  long  correspondence  in  arrears. 

At  bed-time  Eose  spoke  again. 

"How  old  is  she?"  Eose  said. 


XVII 

THE  next  day  at  four  o'clock  Eose  had  on  her  best  gown 
and  was  bright-eyed  and  pink.  Brighter-eyed  and  pinker 
than  Tanqueray  had  seen  her  for  many  weeks.  She  was  excited, 
not  so  much  by  the  prospect  of  seeing  Miss  Holland  as  by  the 
beautiful  vision  of  her  tea-table.  There  was  a  cake  with  sugar 
icing  on  it,  and  bread  and  butter  rolled  as  Eose  had  seen  it 
rolled  at  Fleet.  She  had  set  out  the  tea-service  that  her  aunt 
had  given  her  for  a  wedding-present.  The  table  cloth  had  a 
lace  edge  to  it  which  gratified  Eose  whenever  she  thought  of  it. 
Tanqueray  had  on  his  nicest  suit,  and  Eose's  gaze  travelled  up 
and  down  it,  and  paused  in  ecstasy  at  his  necktie. 

"  You  do  pay  for  dressin',''  she  said. 

"  I  do  indeed,"  said  Tanqueray. 

Eose  got  on  very  w^ell  at  tea-time.  It  was  marvellous  how 
many  things  she  found  to  say.  The  conversation  really  made 
itself.  She  had  only  to  sit  there  and  ask  Miss  Holland  how  she 
liked  her  tea,  weak  or  strong,  and  if  she  took  so  much  milk  or 
a  little  drop  more,  and  sugar,  one  lump  or  two  lumps,  and  that 
sized  lump  or  a  little  larger?  She  spun  it  out  till  George  was 
ready  to  begin  talking.  And  there  came  a  beautiful  and  sacred 
silence  while  Eose  made  Tanqueray's  tea  and  gave  it  him. 

After  seven  months  it  was  still  impossible  for  Eose  to  hide 
her  deep  delight  in  waiting  on  him.  More  than  once  her  eyes 
turned  from  Jane  to  watch  him  in  the  wonderful  and  interesting 
acts  of  eating  and  drinking. 

For  a  moment  Jane  suffered  an  abominable  pang  as  she  real- 
ized the  things  that  were  permissible  to  Eose,  the  things  that 
she  could  say  to  Tanqueray,  the  things  that  she  might  do  for 
him.  At  first  she  had  looked  away  so  that  she  might  not  see 
these  tender  approaches  of  Eose  to  Tanqueray.  Then  she  re- 
membered that  this  was  precisely  what  she  had  come  out  to 
9  135 


136  THECEEATOSS 

see, —  that  she  had  got  to  realize  Eose.  And  thus,  as  she 
brought  herself  round  to  face  it  fairly,  she  caught  in  a  flash 
Eose's  attitude  and  the  secret  of  it. 

It  was  not  a  thing  flung  in  her  face  to  madden  her,  it  had  no 
bridal  insolence  about  it,  and  none  of  the  consecrated  folly  of 
the  bride.  It  was  a  thing  of  pathos  and  of  innocence,  some- 
thing between  the  uncontrollable  tenderness,  the  divine  infatua- 
tion of  a  mother,  and  the  crude  obsession  of  a  girl  uncertain  of 
the  man  she  has  set  her  unhappy  heart  on ;  a  thing,  Eose's  atti- 
tude, stripped  of  all  secrecy  by  its  sadness. 

But  there  was  nothing  abject  in  it.  It  was  strong;  it  was 
militant  under  its  pathos  and  its  renunciation.  With  such  a 
look  Eose  would  have  faced  gates  of  death  closing  between  her 
and  Tanqueray. 

So  Jane  realized  Eose. 

And  she  said  to  herself,  "  What  a  good  thing  Tanks  never  did 
care  for  me.  It  would  be  awful  if  I  made  her  more  uncertain  of 
him." 

At  this  moment  Tanqueray  said,  "  How  's  Hambleby  ?  " 

"  He  's  not  quite  so  well  as  he  was,"  said  Jane. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Tanqueray. 

"  Is  anybody  ill  ?  "  said  Eose.  She  was  always  interested  in 
anybody  who  was  ill. 

"  Only  Hambleby,"  said  Tanqueray. 

"Who's  he?"  said  Eose. 

"  The  man  Jinny  's  in  love  with." 

Eose  was  shocked  at  this  violation  of  the  holy  privacies.  She 
looked  reprovingly  at  Tanqueray. 

"  Is  your  tea  as  you  like  it  ?  "  she  inquired,  with  tact,  to  make 
it  more  comfortable  for  Jane. 

"  I  'm  going  to  smoke,"  said  Tanqueray.  "  Will  you  come  to 
my  den.  Jinny,  and  talk  about  Hambleby  ?  " 

Eose  looked  as  if  positively  she  could  n't  believe  her  ears. 
But  it  was  at  Jane  that  she  looked,  not  at  Tanqueray. 

"  No,"  said  Jinny.  "  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  Hambleby. 
I  want  to  talk  to  your  wife." 

"  You  must  n't  mind  what  'e  says,"  said  Eose,  when  they 


THE     CEEA  TOES  137 

were  alone  together,     "  'E  sometimes  says  things  to  me  that 
make  me  fair  jump." 

"  I  did  n't  jump,"  said  Jane,  "  did  I  ?  " 

"  No.     You  took  it  a  deal  better  than  I  should  have  done." 

It  was  odd,  but  Kose  was  ten  times  more  at  her  ease  since  Tan- 
queray's  awful  reference  to  Hambleby.  And  she  seemed  hap- 
pier, too. 

"  You  see,"  said  Jane,  "  there  was  n't  much  to  take.  Ham- 
bleby 's  only  a  man  in  a  book  I  'm  writing." 

"Oh  —  only  a  man  in  a  book." 

Rose  looked  depressed.  There  was  a  silence  which  even  Jane 
found  it  difficult  to  break.     Then  she  had  an  inspiration. 

"  I  'm  supposed  to  be  in  love  with  him  because  I  can't  think 
or  talk  about  anything  else." 

"  That 's  just  like  Mr.  Tanqueray,"  said  Rose. 

"  Only  he  is  n't  in  love  with  the  people  in  his  books,"  said 
Jane. 

"  He  must  think  a  deal  of  'em." 

"  He  says  he  does  n't." 

"  Well  —  'e  's  always  thinkin'  when  he  is  n't  writin'." 

There  was  trouble  on  Rose's  face. 

"Miss  'Olland  —  'ow  many  hours  do  you  sit  at  it?" 

"  Oh,  it  depends." 

"  'E  's  sittin'  all  day  sometimes,  and  'arf  the  night.  And  my 
fear  is,"  said  Rose,  "  'e  '11  injure  'is  brain." 

"  It  will  take  a  good  deal  to  injure  it.  It 's  very  tough. 
He  '11  leave  off  when  he  's  tired." 

"  He  has  n't  left  off  for  months  and  months." 

Her  trouble  deepened. 

"  Did  'e  always  work  that  'ard  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jane.     "  I  don't  think  he  ever  did." 

"  Then  w'y,"  said  Rose,  coming  straight  to  her  point,  "  is  he 
doin'  it  now  ?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other;  and  somehow  Jane  knew  why  he 
was  doing  it.     She  wondered  if  Rose  knew;  if  she  suspected. 

"  He  's  doing  it,"  she  said,  "  because  he  can  do  it.  You  've 
had  a  good  effect  on  him." 


138  THE     CEEA  TOES 

"  Do  you  think,  do  you  really  think  it 's  me!  " 

"  I  do  indeed,"  said  Jane,  with  immense  conviction. 

"  And  you  think  it  does  n't  hurt  him  ?  " 

"  No.  Does  him  good.  You  should  be  glad  when  you  see 
him  writing." 

"  If,"  said  Rose,  "  I  could  see  'im.  But  I  've  bin  settin'  here 
thinkin'.  I  lie  awake  sometimes  at  night  till  I  'm  terrified  won- 
derin'  wot 's  'appenin',  and  whether  'is  brain  won't  give  way  with 
'im  drivin'  it.  You  see,  we  'ad  a  lodger  once  and  'e  overworked 
'is  brain  and  'ad  to  be  sent  orf  quick  to  the  asylum.  That 's 
wot 's  frightened  me." 

"  But  I  don't  suppose  the  lodger's  brain  was  a  bit  like  Mr. 
Tanqueray's." 

"  That 's  wot  I  keep  sayin'  to  myself.  People's  brains  is  dif- 
ferent. But  there  's  been  times  when  I  could  have  taken  that  old 
book  away  from  him  and  hidden  it,  thinkin'  that  might  be  for 
his  good." 

"  It  would  n't  be  for  his  good." 

"  No,"  said  Eose,  "  I  'm  not  that  certain  that  it  would. 
That 's  why  I  don't  do  it." 

She  became  pensive. 

"  Besides,  it 's  'is  pleasure.  Why,  it 's  all  the  pleasure  he  's 
got." 

She  looked  up  at  Jane.     Her  thoughts  swam  in  her  large  eyes. 

"  It 's  awful,  is  n't  it,"  said  she,  "  not  knowin'  wot  really  is 
for  people's  good  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  we  must  trust  them  to  know  best." 

"  Well,"  said  Eose,  "  I  '11  just  let  'im  alone.     That 's  safest." 

Jane  rose. 

"  You  must  n't  worry,"  said  she. 

"  I  don't,"  said  Eose.     "  He  hates  worryin'." 

She  looked  up  again  into  Jane's  face  as  one  beholding  the 
calm  face  of  wisdom. 

"  You  've  done  me  good,"  said  she. 

Jane  stooped  and  kissed  her.     She  kissed  Tanqueray's  wife. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  you  are  what  I  thought  you  would 
be." 


T  H  B     C  R  E  A  T  0  K  S  139 

Rose's  eyes  grew  rounder. 

"  And  what 's  that  ?  " 

"  Something  very  sweet  and  nice." 

Rose's  face  was  a  soft  mist  of  smiles  and  blushes.  "  Fancy 
that,"  she  said. 

"  Wliy  did  you  let  her  go  away  without  telling  me?"  said 
Tanqueray,  half-an-hour  later. 

"  I  did  n't  think,"  said  Rose.     "  We  got  talking." 

"  What  did  you  talk  about?  " 

She  would  not  tell. 


XVIII 

SHE  had  known  all  the  time  that  if  she  was  not  to  go  on 
thinking  about  George  Tanqueray  she  must  see  his  wife. 
When  she  had  once  thoroughly  realized  his  wife  it  would  be 
easier  to  give  him  up  to  her. 

It  was  George  who  had  tried  to  prevent  her  realizing  Eose, 
He,  for  his  part,  refused  to  be  given  up  to  Rose  or  in  any  way 
identified  with  her.  Nina  was  right.  His  marriage  had  made 
no  difference  to  George. 

But  now  that  she  realized  Eose,  it  made  all  the  difference 
to  Jane.  Eose  was  realized  so  completely  that  she  turned  George 
out  of  the  place  he  persisted  in  occupying  in  Jane's  mind.  Jane 
had  not  allowed  herself  to  feel  that  there  was  anything  to  be 
sorry  about  in  George's  marriage.  She  was  afraid  of  having  to 
be  sorry  for  George,  because,  in  that  case,  there  would  be  no 
end  to  her  thinking  about  him.  But  if  there  was  any  sorrow  in 
George's  marriage  it  was  not  going  to  affect  George.  She  would 
not  have  to  be  sorry  about  him. 

Like  Nina,  Jane  was  sorry  for  the  woman. 

That  little  figure  strayed  in  and  out  of  Jane's  mind  without 
disturbing  her  renewed  communion  with  Hambleby. 

Up  till  now  she  had  contrived  to  keep  the  very  existence  of 
Hambleby  a  secret  from  her  publishers.  But  they  had  got  wind 
of  him  somehow,  and  had  written  many  times  inquiring  when 
he  would  be  ready  ?  As  if  she  could  tell,  as  if  her  object  was  to 
get  him  ready,  and  not  rather  to  prolong  the  divine  moments  of 
his  creation.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  kept  him  with  her 
in  perpetual  manuscript,  for  in  this  state  he  still  seemed  a  part 
of  herself.  Publicity  of  any  sort  was  a  profanation.  Whejn 
published  he  would  be  made  to  stand  in  shop  windows  coarsely 
labelled,  offering  himself  for  sale  at  four-and-six ;  he  would  go 
into  the  houses  of  people  who  could  n't  possibly  appreciate  him, 

140 


THE     CREATORS  141 

and  would  suffer  unspeakable  things  at  their  hands.  As  the 
supreme  indignity,  he  would  be  reviewed.  And  she,  his  creator, 
would  be  living  on  him,  profiting  by  his  degradation  at  percen- 
tages which  made  her  blush.  To  be  thinking  of  what  Hambleby 
would  "  fetch  "  was  an  outrage  to  his  delicate  perfection. 

But  she  had  to  think  of  it ;  and  after  all,  when  she  had  reck- 
oned it  up,  he  would  not  "  fetch "  so  very  much.  She  had 
failed  to  gather  in  one  half  of  the  golden  harvest.  The  serial 
rights  of  Hambleby  lay  rotting  in  the  field.  George  used  to 
manage  all  these  dreadful  things  for  her.  For  though  George 
was  not  much  cleverer  than  she  he  liked  to  think  he  was.  It  was 
his  weakness  to  imagine  that  he  had  a  head  for  business.  And 
in  the  perversity  of  things  he  had  really  done  better  for  her 
than  he  had  ever  done  for  himself.  That  was  the  irony  of  it; 
when,  if  she  could,  she  would  have  taken  her  luck  and  shared  it 
with  him. 

Anyhow,  business  without  George  had  been  very  uninterest- 
ing; and  therefore  she  had  not  attended  to  it.  There  had  been 
opportunities  as  golden  as  you  please,  but  she  had  not  seized 
them.  There  had  been  glorious  openings  for  Hambleby,  far- 
reaching  prospects,  noble  vistas,  if  only  he  had  been  born  six 
months  sooner.  And  when  George  said  that  Hambleby  would 
be  popular,  he  was,  of  course,  only  tormenting  her.  He  never 
meant  half  of  the  unpleasant  things  he  said. 

It  was  now  April.  Hambleby  waited  only  for  the  crowning 
chapter.  The  arrangements  for  his  publication  had  been  made, 
all  but  the  date,  which  was  left  unsettled,  in  case  at  the  last 
moment  a  new  opening  should  be  found. 

At  four  o'clock  on  an  April  afternoon  Jane  was  meditating 
on  her  affairs  when  the  staircase  bell  rang  somewhat  imperiously. 
It  sounded  like  somebody  determined  to  get  in.  A  month  ago 
she  would  have  taken  no  notice  of  it.  Now  she  was  afraid  not 
to  open  her  door  lest  Tanqueray  should  be  there. 

It  was  not  Tanqueray.     It  was  Hugh  Brodrick. 

For  a  second  she  wondered  at  him,  not  taking  him  in.  She 
had  forgotten  that  Brodrick  existed.  It  was  his  eves  she  recog- 
nized him  by.     They  were  fixed  on  her,  smiling  at  her  wonder. 


142  THE     CEEA  TOES 

He  stood  on  the  little  square  of  landing  between  the  door  and 
the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said.     "  You  're  just  going  out?  " 

"  No,  do  come  in." 

"  May  I  ?     I  don't  believe  you  know  in  the  least  who  I  am." 

"  I  do,  really.     I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you." 

He  followed  her  up  the  stairs  and  into  her  sitting-room,  the 
small  white-painted  sitting-room,  with  its  three  straight  windows 
looking  on  the  Square.  He  went  to  one  of  the  windows  and 
looked  out. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  there  is  a  charm  about  it." 

He  spoke  as  if  his  mind  had  been  long  occupied  with  this  place 
she  lived  in ;  as  if  they  had  disputed  together  many  times  as  to 
the  attraction  of  Kensington  Square,  and  he  had  been  won  over, 
at  last,  reluctantly,  to  her  view.  It  all  strengthened  the  impres- 
sion he  gave  of  being  absorbed  in  her. 

He  turned  to  her. 

"You  like  living  here?  All  alone?  Cut  off  from  every- 
body?" 

She  remembered  then  how  they  had  really  discussed  this  ques- 
tion. 

"  I  like  it  very  much  indeed." 

"Well "     (He  said  it  sadly.)     "Do  you  write  in  this 

room?     At  that  table?" 

"  Yes." 

He  looked  at  the  table  as  if  he  thought  it  all  very  interesting 
and  very  incomprehensible  and  very  sad.  He  looked  at  the 
books  on  the  shelf  close  to  the  table  and  read  George  Tanque- 
ray's  name  on  them.  He  frowned  slightly  at  the  books  and 
turned  away. 

She  sat  down.  He  did  not  take  the  chair  she  indicated,  but 
chose  another  where  he  could  see  her  rather  better.  He  was 
certainly  a  man  who  knew  his  own  mind. 

"  I  've  called,"  he  said,  "  a  great  many  times.  But  I  'vo 
always  missed  you." 

"  So  at  last  you  gave  it  up  ?     Like  everybody  else." 

"  Docs  it  look  as  if  1  'd  given  it  up?  " 


THECEEATORS  143 

She  could  not  say  it  did. 

"  No/'  he  said.  "  I  never  give  anything  up.  In  that  I  'm 
not  like  everybody  else." 

He  was  n't,  she  reflected.  And  yet  somehow  he  ought  to  have 
been.     There  was  nothing  so  very  remarkable  about  him. 

He  smiled.  "  I  believe,"  he  said,  "  you  thought  I  was  the 
man  come  to  tune  the  piano." 

"Did  I  look  as  if  I  did?" 

"  A  little." 

"Do  I  now?"     She  was  beginning  to  like  Brodrick. 

"  Not  so  much.  As  it  happens,  I  have  come  partly  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  and  partly  —  to  discuss,  if  you  don't  mind, 
some  business." 

Jane  was  aware  of  a  certain  relief.  If  it  was  that  he  came 
for 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  've  heard  that  I  'm  bringing  out 
a  magazine  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes.     I  remember  you  were  bringing  it  out " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  bringing  it  out  when  I  last  met  you.  It 
may  interest  you,  because  it 's  to  have  nothing  in  it  that  is  n't 
literature.  I  'm  going  in  for  novels,  short  stories,  essays,  poems. 
No  politics." 

"  Won't  that  limit  your  circulation  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  '11  limit  it.  Still,  it 's  not  easy  to  keep  honest 
if  you  go  in  for  politics." 

"  I  see.  Eather  than  not  be  honest  you  prefer  to  limit  your 
circulation  ?  " 

He  blushed  like  a  man  detected  in  some  meanness;  the  su- 
preme meanness  of  vaunting  his  own  honesty. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  about  that.  Politics  means  my 
brother-in-law.  If  I  keep  them  out  I  keep  him  out,  and  run  the 
thing  my  own  way.     I  dare  say  that 's  all  there  is  in  it." 

Certainly  she  liked  him.  He  struck  her  as  powerful  and  de- 
termined. With  his  magazine,  he  had  the  air  of  charging,  sub- 
limely, at  the  head  of  the  forlorn  hope  of  literature. 

"  It 's  taken  me  all  this  time  to  get  the  capital  together.  But 
I  've  got  it." 


144  THE     CKEA  TOES 

"  Yes.     You  would  get  it." 

He  looked  up  gravely  inquiring. 

"  You  strike  me  as  being  able  to  get  things." 

He  flushed  with  pleasure.  "  Do  I  ?  I  don't  know.  If  I  can 
get  the  authors  I  want  I  believe  I  can  make  the  magazine  one  of 
the  big  things  of  the  century."  He  said  it  quietly,  as  if  in- 
spired by  caution  rather  than  enthusiasm.  "  They  '11  make 
it  —  if  I  can  get  them." 

"Are  they  so  difficult?" 

"  The  ones  I  want  are.     I  don't  want  any  but  the  best." 

She  smiled. 

"  It 's  all  very  well  to  smile ;  but  this  kind  of  magazine  has  n't 
really  been  tried  before.     There  's  room  for  it." 

"  Oh,  oceans  of  room." 

"  And  it  will  have  all  the  room  there  is.  Now  's  its  moment. 
All  the  good  old  magazines  are  dead." 

"  And  gone  to  heaven  because  they  were  so  good." 

"  Because  they  were  old.     My  magazine  will  be  young." 

"  There  has  been  frightful  mortality  among  the  young." 

"  I  know  the  things  you  mean.  They  were  decadent,  neurotic, 
morbid,  worse  than  old.  My  magazine  will  be  really  young. 
It's  the  young  writers  that  I  want.  And  there  isn't  one  of 
them  I  want  as  much  as  you." 

She  seemed  to  have  hardly  heard  him. 

"  Have  you  asked  Mr.  Tanqueray  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.     You  're  the  first  I  've   asked.     The  very  first." 

"  You   should  have   asked  him   first." 

"  I  did  n't  want  him  first." 

"You  should  have  wanted  him.  Why"  (she  persisted), 
"  did  you  come  to  me  before  him  ?  " 

"  Because  you  're  so  much  more  valuable  to  me." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"Your  name  is  better  known." 

"  It  ought  n't  to  be.     If  it 's  names  you  want "     She 

gave  him  a  string  of  them. 

"  Your  name  stands  for  more." 

"  And  Mr.  Tanqueray's  ?     Does  it  not  stand  ?  " 


THE     CEEATOKS  145 

He  hesitated. 

She  insisted.     "  If  mine  does." 

"  I  am  corrupt,"  said  Brodrick,  "  and  mercenary  and  brutal." 

"  I  wish  you  were  n't,"  said  she,  so  earnestly  that  he  laughed. 

"My  dear  Miss  Holland,  we  cannot  blink  the  fact  that  you 
have  a  name  and  he  has  n't." 

"Or  that  my  name  sells  and  his  doesn't.     Is  that  it?" 

"  Not  altogether.     If  I  could  n't  get  you  I  ^d  try  to  get  him." 

"  Would  you  ?  How  do  you  know  that  you  're  going  to  get 
me?" 

He  smiled.  "  I  don't.  I  only  know  that  I  'm  prepared,  if 
I  may  say  so,  to  pay  for  you." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  it  is  n't  that." 

He  smiled  again  at  her  horror. 

"  I  know  it  is  n't  that.     Still "     He  named  a  round  sum, 

a  sum  so  perfect  in  its  roundness  that  it  took  her  breath  away. 
With  such  a  sum  she  could  do  all  that  she  Avanted  for  her  sister 
Effy  at  once,  and  secure  herself  against  gross  poverty  for  years. 

"  It 's  more  than  we  could  give  Mr.  Tanqueray." 

"Is  it?" 

"Much  more." 

"  That 's  what 's  so  awful,"  she  said. 

He  noticed  how  she  clenched  her  hands  as  she  said  it. 

"  It 's  not  my  fault,  is  it  ?  " 

"Oh  —  I  don't  care  whose  fault  it  is  !  " 

"  But  you  care  ?  " 

"  Yes."     She  almost  whispered  it. 

He  was  struck  by  that  sudden  drop  from  vehemence  to  pathos. 

"  He  is  a  very  great  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  —  he  's  just  married,  is  n't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  he  is  n't  very  well  off.  I  don't  think  he  could 
afford "  she  said. 

He  coloured  painfully  as  if  she  had  suspected  him  of  a  desire 
to  traffic  in  Tanquoray's  poverty. 

"  We  should  pay  him  very  well,"  he  said. 

"His  book"  (she  pressed  it  on  him),  "is  not  arranged  for." 


146  THECEEATOES 

"  And  yours  is  ?  " 

"  Practically  it  is.  The  contract 's  drawn  up,  but  the  date  's 
not  settled." 

"  If  the  date  's  not  settled,  surely  I  've  still  a  chance  ?  " 

"  And  he,"  she  said,  "  has  still  a  chance  if  —  I  fail  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  —  if  you  fail  me." 

"  And  supposing  that  I  had  n't  got  a  book  ?  " 

"  But  you  have." 

"  Supposing  ?  " 

"  Then  I  should  fall  back  on  Mr.  Tanquerav." 

"Fall  back  on  him !  — The  date  is  settled." 

"But  I  thought " 

"  1  Ve  settled  it." 

"  Oh.     And  it  can't  be  unsettled  ?  " 

"  It  can't  —  possibly." 

"Why  not?" 

She  meditated.  "  Because  —  it  would  spoil  the  chances  of 
the  book." 

"  I  see.     The  chances  of  the  book." 

Their  eyes  met  in  conflict.  It  was  as  if  they  were  measuring 
each  other's  moral  value. 

"I  should  make  you  a  bigger  ofi'er,  Miss  Holland,"  he  said; 
"only  I  believe  you  don't  want  that." 

"  No.     Certainly  I  don't  want  that." 

He  paused.  "  Do  you  mind  telling  me  if  you  've  any  other 
chance  ?  " 

"  None.     Not  the  ghost  of  one." 

"  So  that,  but  for  this  all-important  question  of  the  date, 
I  might  have  had  you  ?  " 

"  You  might  have  had  me." 

"  I  'm  almost  glad,"  he  said,  "  to  have  lost  you  —  that  way." 

"  '\,\Tiich  way  ?  "  said  she. 

x\t  that  moment  a  servant  of  the  house  brought  in  tea.  She 
announced  that  Mr.  Nicholson  was  down-stairs  and  would  like 
to  see  Miss  Holland. 

"  Very  well.     You  '11  stay  ?  "  Jane  said  to  Brodrick. 

He  did.     He  was,  Jane  reflected,  the  sort  of  man  who  stayed. 


•  And  ho,"  slic  suui,  "  iias  hlill  ;i  fhaiic,-  it—  1  laii  y..u 


THECEEATOES  149 

"  Here 's  Mr,  Brodrick,"  said  she,  as  Nicky  entered.  "  He  's 
going  to  make  all  our  fortunes/' 

"  His  own,  too,  I  hope,"  said  Brodrick.  But  he  looked  sulky, 
as  if  he  resented  Nicholson's  coming  in. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  they  tell  me  the  whole  thing 's  a 
dream,  a  delusion,  that  it  won't  pay.  But  I  know  how  to  make 
it  pay.  The  reason  why  magazines  go  smash  is  because  they  're 
owned  by  men  with  no  business  connections,  no  business  organi- 
zation, no  business  capacity.  I  could  n't  do  it  if  I  had  n't  the 
'  Telegraph '  at  my  back.  Practically  I  make  the  paper  pay 
for  the  magazine." 

And  he  went  into  it,  in  his  quick,  quiet  voice,  expounding 
and  expanding  his  scheme,  laying  it  down  fairly  and  squarely, 
with  lucidity  but  no  apparent  ardour. 

It  was  Nicky  who  was  excited.  Jane  could  see  cupidity  in 
Nicky's  eyes  as  Brodrick  talked  about  his  magazine.  Brodrick 
dwelt  now  on  the  commercial  side  of  it  which  had  no  interest 
for  Nicky.  Yet  Nicky  was  excited.  He  wanted  badly  to  get 
into  Brodrick's  magazine,  and  Brodrick  wanted,  Brodrick  was 
determined  to  keep  him  out.  There  was  a  brief  struggle  be- 
tween Nicky's  decency  and  his  desire;  and  then  Nicky's  desire 
and  Brodrick's  determination  fairly  skirmished  together  in  the 
open.  Brodrick  tried  heavily  to  keep  Nicky  off  it.  But  Nicky 
hovered  airily,  intangibly  about  it.  He  fanned  it  as  with  wings ; 
when  Brodrick  dropped  it  he  picked  it  up,  he  sustained  it,  he 
kept  it  flying  high.  Every  movement  intimated  in  Nicky's  most 
exquisite  manner  that  if  Brodrick  really  meant  it,  if  he  had 
positively  surrendered  to  the  expensive  dream,  if  he  wanted, 
in  short,  to  keep  it  up  and  keep  it  high,  he  could  n't  be  off 
letting  Nicky  in. 

Brodrick's  shameless  intention  had  been  to  out-stay  Nicky. 
And  as  long  as  Nicky's  approaches  were  so  delicate  as  to  pro- 
voke only  delicate  evasions,  Brodrick  stayed.  But  in  the  end 
poor  Nicky  turned  desperate  and  put  it  to  him  point-blank. 
"  Was  there,  or  was  there  not  to  be  a  place  for  poets  in  the 
magazine  ?  " 

At  that  Brodrick  got  up  and  went. 


150  THE     CEEATOES 

"Nicky/'  said  Jane,  as  the  door  closed  on  the  retreating 
editor,  "  he  came  for  my  book,  and  I  've  made  him  take  George 
Tanqueray's  instead." 

"  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  3^011  'd  make  him  take  my  poems.  But 
you  can't.  Nobody  can  make  Brodrick  do  anything  he  does  n't 
want  to." 

"  Oh "  said  Jane,  and  dismissed  Brodrick.     "  It 's  ages 

since  I  've  seen  you." 

"  I  heard  that  you  were  immersed,  and  so  I  kept  away." 

"  That  was  very  good  of  you,"  said  she. 

It  struck  her  when  she  liad  said  it  that  perhaps  it  was  not 
altogether  what  Nicky  would  have  liked  her  to  say. 

"  I  was  immersed,"  she  said,  "  in  Hambleby." 

"Is  he  finished?" 

"  All  but.     I  'm  waiting  to  put  a  crown  upon  his  head." 

"  Were  you  by  any  chance  making  it  —  the  crown?  " 

"  I  have  n't  even  begun  to  make  it." 

"  I  shan't  spoil  him  then  if  I  stay  ?  " 

"  No.     I  doubt  if  anything  could  spoil  him  now." 

"  You  've  got  him  so  safe  ?  " 

"  So  safe.  And  yet,  Nicky,  there  are  moments  when  I  can 
hardly  bear  to  think  of  Hambleby  for  fear  he  should  n't  be  all 
right.     It 's  almost  as  if  he  came  too  easily." 

"  He  could  n't.  All  my  best  things  come,"  said  Nicky 
"  —  like  that!" 

A  furious  sweep  of  Nicky's  arm  simulated  the  onrush  of  his 
inspiration. 

"  Oh,  Nicky,  how  splendid  it  must  be  to  be  so  certain." 

"  It  is,"  said  Nicky  solemnly. 

After  all,  it  argued  some  divine  compensation  somewhere  that 
a  thing  so  destitute  should  remain  unaware  of  its  destitution, 
that  a  creature  so  futile  and  diminutive  should  be  sustained 
by  this  conviction  of  his  greatness.  For  he  ivas  certain.  Noth- 
ing could  annihilate  the  illusion  by  which  Nicky  lived.  But  it 
was  enough  to  destroy  all  certainty  in  anybody  else,  and  there 
were  moments  when  the  presence  of  Nicky  had  this  shattering 


THE     CEEA  TOES  151 

effect  on  Jane.  She  could  not  have  faced  him  until  Hambleby 
was  beyond  his  power  to  slay. 

But  Nicky,  so  far  from  enlarging  on  his  certainty,  meditated 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  clock. 

"You  don't  dine,  do  you,"  he  said  suddenly,  "till  half-past 
seven  ?  " 

"  You  '11  stay,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  must  n't,  thanks.  I  only  wanted  to  know  how 
long  I  had." 

"  You  've  really  half-an-hour,  if  you  won't  dine." 

"  I  say,  you're  not  expecting  anybody  else  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  expect  Mr.  Brodrick.  I  've  kept  everybody  out 
so  long  that  they  've  left  off  coming." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  he,  still  meditating,  "  if  I  've  come  too 
Boon." 

She  held  her  breath.  Nicky's  voice  was  charged  with  a  curious 
emotion. 

"  I  knew,"  he  went  on,  "  it  was  n't  any  use  my  coming  as 
long  as  you  were  irumersed.  I  would  n't  for  worlds  do  anything 
that  could  possibly  injure  your  career." 

"  Oh  —  my  career " 

"  The  question  is,"  he  meditated,  "  would  it  ?  " 

"  Your  coming,  Nicky  ?  " 

"  My  not  keeping  away.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  content  to 
stand  aside  and  watch  it,  your  genius,  when  it's  so  tremendous. 
I  've  no  right  to  get  in  its  way '* 

"  You  don't  —  you  don't." 

"  I  would  n't.  I  always  should  be  standing  aside  and  watch- 
ing.    That,"  said  Nicky,  "  would  be,  you  see,  my  attitude." 

"  Dear  Nicky,"  she  murmured,  "  it 's  a  beautiful  attitude.  It 
could  n't  —  your  attitude  —  be  anything  but  beautiful." 

"  Only,  of  course,"  he  added,  "  I  'd  be  there." 

"  But  you  are.  Y^ou  are  there.  And  it 's  delightful  to  have 
you." 

His  face,  which  had  turned  very  white,  flushed,  but  not  with 
pleasure.  It  quivered  with  some  sombre  and  sultry  wave  of 
pain. 


152  THE     CREATOES 

"  I  meant,"  he  said,  "  if  I  were  always  there." 

His  eyes  searched  her.     She  would  not  look  at  him. 

"  Nobody,"  she  said,  "  can  be  —  always." 

"  You  would  n't  know  it.  You  would  n't  see  me  —  when  you 
were  immersed." 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "  I  always  am,  I  always  shall  be  — 
immersed." 

"  Won't  there  be  moments  ?  " 

"  Oh,  moments  !     Very  few." 

"  I  would  n't  care  how  few  there  were,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
there  can't  be  many." 

She  understood  him.  There  was  nothing  on  earth  like  Nicky's 
delicacy.  He  was  telling  her  that  he  would  accept  any  terms,  the 
very  lowest ;  that  he  knew  how  Tanqueray  had  impoverished  her ; 
that  he  could  live  on  moments,  the  moments  Tanqueray  had  left. 

"  There  are  none,   Nicky.     None,"  she   said. 

"  I  see  this  is  n't  one  of  them." 

"  All  the  moments  —  when  there  are  any  —  will  be  more  or 
less  like   this.     I  'm  sorry,"   she   said. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  he.  It  was  as  if  they  were  saying  they  were 
sorry  he  could  not  dine. 

So  monstrous  was  Nicky's  capacity  for  illusion  that  he  went 
away  thinking  he  had  given  Jane  up  for  the  sake  of  her  career. 

And  Jane  tried  to  think  of  Nicky  and  be  sorry  for  him. 
But  she  could  n't.  She  was  immoderately  happy.  She  had 
given  up  Brodrick's  magazine  and  Brodrick's  money  for  Tan- 
queray's  sake.  Tanks  would  have  his  chance.  He  would  be 
able  to  take  a  house,  and  then  that  little  wife  of  his  would  n't 
have  to  sit  with  her  hands  before  her,  fretting  her  heart  away 
because  of  Tanks.  She  was  pleased,  too,  because  she  had  made 
Brodrick  do  what  he  had  n't  meant  and  did  n't  want  to  do. 

But  as  she  lay  in  bed  that  night,  not  thinking  of  Brodrick, 
she  saw  suddenly  Brodrick's  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  a  look  in 
them  which  she  had  not  regarded  at  the  time ;  and  she  heard 
him  saying,  in  that  queer,  quiet  voice  of  his,  "  I  'm  almost  glad 
to  have  lost  you  this  way." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  if  he  really  spotted  me." 


XIX 

BRODRICK'S  house,  Moor  Grange,  stood  on  the  Roehamp- 
ton  side  of  Putney  Heath,  just  discernible  between  the 
silver  and  green  of  the  birches.  With  its  queer,  red-tiled  roofs, 
pitched  at  every  possible  slope,  white,  rough-cast,  many-cornered 
walls,  green  storm-shutters,  lattice  windows  of  many  sorts  and 
sizes,  Brodrick's  house  had  all  the  brilliant  eccentricity  of  the 
twentieth  century. 

But  Brodrick's  garden  was  at  least  a  hundred  years  older 
than  his  house.  It  had  a  beautiful  green  lawn  with  a  lime- 
tree  in  the  middle  and  a  stone-flagged  terrace  at  the  back  over- 
looking the  north  end  of  the  Heath.  Behind  the  house  there 
was   a   kitchen   garden   that  had   survived   modernity. 

Brodrick's  garden  was  kept  very  smooth  and  very  straight, 
no  impudent  little  flowers  hanging  out  of  their  beds,  no  dis- 
solute straggling  of  creepers  upon  walls.  Even  the  sweet-peas 
at  the  back  were  trained  to  a  perfect  order  and  propriety. 

And  in  Brodrick's  house  propriety  and  order  were  carried  to 
the  point  of  superstition.  Nothing  in  that  queer-cornered,  mod- 
ern exterior  was  ever  out  of  place.  No  dust  ever  lay  on  floor 
or  furniture.  All  the  white-painted  woodwork  was  exquisitely 
white.  Time  there  was  measured  by  a  silver-chiming  clock  that 
struck  the  quiet  hours  with  an  infallible  regularity. 

And  yet  Brodrick  was  not  a  tidy  nor  a  punctual  man.  In 
his  library  the  spirit  of  order  contended  against  fearful  odds. 
For  Brodrick  lived  in  his  library,  the  long,  book-lined,  up-stairs 
room  that  ran  half  the  length  of  the  house  on  the  north  side. 
But  even  there,  violate  as  he  would  his  own  sanctuary,  the  inde- 
structible propriety  renewed  itself  by  a  diurnal  miracle.  He 
found  books  restored  to  their  place,  papers  sorted,  everything 
an  editor  could  want  lying  ready  to  his  hand.     For  the  spirit 

of  order  rose  punctually  to  perform  its  task. 
10  153 


154  THECKEATOES 

But  in  the  drawing-room  its  struggles  and  its  triumph  were 
complete. 

It  had  been,  so  Brodrick's  sisters  told  him,  a  man's  idea  of 
a  drawing-room.  And  now  there  were  feminine  touches,  so 
incongruous  and  scattered  that  they  seemed  the  work  of  a  person 
establishing  herself  tentatively,  almost  furtively,  by  small  incon- 
spicuous advances  and  instalments.  A  little  work-table  stood 
beside  the  low  settle  in  the  corner  by  the  fireplace.  Gay,  shining 
chintz  covered  the  ugly  chairs.  There  were  cushions  here  and 
there  where  a  woman's  back  most  needed  them.  Books,  too,  clas- 
sics in  slender  duo-decimo,  bought  for  their  cheapness,  novels 
(from  the  circulating  library),  of  the  kind  that  Brodrick  never 
read.  On  the  top  of  a  writing-table,  flagrantly  feminine  in  its 
appointments,  there  stood,  well  in  sight  of  the  low  chair,  a 
photograph  of  Brodrick  which  Brodrick  could  not  possibly  have 
framed  and  put  there. 

The  woman  who  entered  this  room  now  had  all  the  air  of 
being  its  mistress;  she  moved  in  it  so  naturally  and  with  such 
assurance,  as  in  her  sphere.  You  would  have  judged  her  occu- 
pied with  some  mysterious  personal  predilections  with  regard 
to  drawing-rooms.  She  paused  in  her  passage  to  reinstate  some 
article  dishonoured  by  the  parlour-maid,  to  pat  a  cushion  into 
shape  and  place  a  chair  better  to  her  liking.  At  each  of  these 
small  fastidious  operations  she  frowned  like  one  who  resents 
interference  with  the  perfected  system  of  her  own  arrangements. 

She  sat  down  at  the  writing-table  and  took  from  a  pigeon- 
hole a  sheaf  of  tradesmen's  bills.  These  she  checked  and  dock- 
eted conscientiously,  after  entering  their  totals  in  a  book  marked 
"  Household.''  Prom  all  these  acts  she  seemed  to  draw  some 
secret  enjoyment  and  satisfaction.  Here  she  was  evidently  in 
a  realm  secure  from  the  interference  of  the  incompetent. 

With  a  key  attached  to  her  person  she  now  unlocked  the  inmost 
shrine  of  the  writing-table.  A  small  squat  heap  of  silver  and 
of  copper  sat  there  like  the  god  of  the  shrine.  She  took  it  in 
her  hand  and  counted  it  and  restored  it  to  its  consecrated  seat. 
She  then  made  a  final  entry :  "  Cash  in  Hand,  thirty-five  shil- 
lings." 


THE     CREATORS  155 

She  sat  smiling  in  tender  contemplation  of  this  legend.  It 
stood  for  the  savings  of  the  last  month,  effected  by  her  deft 
manipulation  of  the  household.  There  was  no  suggestion  of 
cupidity  in  her  smile,  nor  any  hint  of  economy  adored  and 
pursued  for  its  own  sake. 

She  was  Gertrude  Collett,  the  lady  who  for  three  years  had 
acted  as  Brodrick's  housekeeper,  or,  as  she  now  preferred  to 
call  herself,  his  secretary.  She  had  contrived,  out  of  this  poor 
material  of  his  weekly  bills,  to  fashion  for  herself  a  religion 
and  an  incorporeal  romance. 

She  raised  her  face  to  the  photograph  of  Brodrick,  as  if  spir- 
itually she  rendered  her  account  to  him.  And  Brodrick's  face, 
from  the  ledge  of  the  writing-table,  looked  over  Gertrude's  head 
with  an  air  of  being  unmoved  by  it  all,  with  eyes  intent  on  their 
own  object. 

She,  Brodrick's  secretary,  might  have  been  about  five-and- 
thirty.  She  was  fair  with  the  fairness  which  is  treacherous  to 
women  of  her  age,  which  suffers  when  they  suffer.  But  Ger- 
trude's skin  still  held  the  colours  of  her  youth  as  some  strong 
fabric  holds  its  dye.  Her  face  puzzled  you;  it  was  so  broad 
across  the  cheek-bones  that  you  would  have  judged  it  coarse; 
it  narrowed  suddenly  in  the  jaws,  pointing  her  chin  to  subtlety. 
Her  nose,  broad  also  across  the  nostrils  and  bridge,  showed  a 
sharp  edge  in  profile;  it  was  alert,  competent,  inquisitive.  But 
there  was  mystery  again  in  the  long-drawn,  pale-rose  lines  of 
her  mouth.  A  wide  mouth  with  irregular  lips,  not  coarse,  but 
coarsely  finished.  Its  corners  must  once  have  drooped  with 
pathos,  but  this  tendency  was  overcome  or  corrected  by  the 
serene  -habit  of  her  smile. 

It  was  not  the  face  of  a  dreamer.  Yet  at  the  moment  you 
would  have  said  she  dreamed.  Her  eyes,  light  coloured,  slightly 
prominent,  stared  unsheltered  under  their  pale  lashes  and  insuf- 
ficient brows.  They  were  eyes  that  at  first  sight  had  no  depths 
in  them.  Yet  they  seemed  to  hold  vapour.  They  dreamed. 
They  showed  her  dream. 

She  started  as  the  silver-chiming  clock  struck  the  quarter. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  the  room  that  was  her  own,  and  exam- 


156  THE     CKEA  TOES 

ined  herself  carefully  in  the  looking-glass.  Then  she  did  some- 
thing to  her  hair.  Waved  slightly  and  kept  in  place  by  small 
amber-coloured  combs,  Gertrude's  hair,  though  fragile,  sustained 
the  effect  of  her  almost  Scandinavian  fairness.  Next  she 
changed  her  cotton  blouse  for  an  immaculate  muslin  one.  As 
she  drew  down  the  blouse  and  smoothed  it  under  the  clipping 
belt,  she  showed  a  body  flat  in  the  back,  sharp-breasted,  curbed 
in  the  waist;  the  body  of  a  thoroughly  competent,  serviceable 
person.  Her  face  now  almost  suggested  prettiness,  as  she  turned 
and  turned  its  little  tilted  profile  between  two  looking-glasses. 

At  half-past  three  she  was  seated  at  her  place  in  Brodrick's 
library.  A  table  was  set  apart  for  her  and  her  typewriter  on 
a  corner  by  the  window. 

The  editor  was  at  work  at  his  own  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room.  He  did  not  look  up  at  her  as  she  came  in.  His 
eyes  were  lowered,  fixed  on  the  proof  he  was  reading.  Once, 
as  he  read,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly,  and  once  he 
sighed.     Then  he  called  her  to  him. 

She  rose  and  came,  moving  dreamily  as  if  drawn,  yet  holding 
herself  stiffly  and  aloof.     He  continued  to  gaze  at  the  proof. 

"  You  sat  up  half  the  night  to  correct  this,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Have  I  done  it  very  badly  ?  " 

He  did. not  tell  her  that  she  had,  that  he  had  spent  the  best 
part  of  his  morning  correcting  her  corrections.  She  was  an 
inimitable  housekeeper,  and  a  really  admirable  secretary.  But 
her  weakness  was  that  she  desired  to  be  considered  admirable 
and  inimitable  in  everything  she  undertook.  It  would  distress 
her  to  know  that  this  time  she  had  not  succeeded,  and  he  did 
not  like  distressing  people  who  were  dependent  on  him.  It 
used  to  be  so  easy,  so  mysteriously  easy,  to  distress  Miss  Collett ; 
but  she  had  got  over  that;  she  was  used  to  him  now;  she  had 
settled  down  into  the  silent  and  serene  performance  of  her 
duties.  And  she  had  brought  to  her  secretarial  work  a  silence 
and  serenity  that  were  invaluable  to  a  man  who  detested  argu- 
ment and  agitation. 

So,  instead  of  insisting  on  her  failure,  he  tried  to  diminish 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  K  S  157 

her  disturbing  sense  of  it;  and  when  she  inquired  if  she  had 
done  her  work  very  badly,  he  smiled  and  said,  No,  she  had  done  it 
much  too  well. 

"  Too  well  ?  "     She  flushed  as  she  echoed  him. 

"  Yes.  You  've  corrected  all  Mr.  Tanqueray's  punctuation 
and  nearly  all  his  grammar.'' 

"  But  it 's  all  wrong.     Look  there  —  and  there." 

"  How  do  you  know  it 's  all  wrong  ?  " 

"  But  —  it 's  so  simple.     There  are  rules." 

"  Yes.  But  Mr.  Tanqueray  's  a  great  author,  and  great  au- 
thors are  born  to  break  half  the  rules  there  are.  What  you 
and  I  have  got  to  know  is  when  they  may  break  them,  and  when 
they  may  n't." 

A  liquid  film  swam  over  Gertrude's  eyes,  deepening  their 
shallows.     It  was  the  first  signal  of  distress. 

"  It 's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  you  to  do  it.  I  wanted 
to  see  what  you  could  do."  He  considered  her  quietly.  "  It 
struck  me  you  might  perhaps  prefer  it  to  your  other  duties." 

"  Wliat  made  you  think  that?  " 

"  I  did  n't  think.     I  only  wondered.     Well " 

The  next  half-hour  was  occupied  with  the  morning's  cor- 
respondence, till  Brodrick  announced  that  they  had  no  time  for 
more. 

"  It 's  only  just  past  four,"  she  said. 

"  I  know ;  but Is  there  anything  for  tea  ?  "     He  spoke 

vaguely  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

"  What  an  opinion  you  have  of  my  housekeeping,"  she  said. 

"Your  housekeeping,  Miss  Collett,  is  perfection." 

She  flushed  with  pleasure,  so  that  he  kept  it  up. 

"  Everything,"  he  said,  "  runs  on  greased  wheels.  I  don't 
know  how  you  do  it." 

"  Oh,  it 's  easy  enough  to   do." 

"  And  it  does  n't  matter  if  a  lady  comes  to  tea  ?  " 

He  took  up  a  pencil  and  liegan  to  sharpen  it. 

"  Is  there,"  said  Miss  Collett,  "  a  lady  coming  to  tea  ?  " 

"  Yes.     And  we  '11  have  it  in  the  garden.     Tea,  I  mean." 


158  THECKEATOES 

"  And  who,"  said  she,  "  is  the  lady  ? " 

"  Miss  Jane  Holland."  Brodrick  did  not  look  up.  He  was 
absorbed  in  his  pencil. 

"  Another  author  ?  " 

"  Another  author,"  said  Brodrick  to  his  pencil. 

She  smiled.  The  editor's  attitude  to  authors  was  one  of 
prolonged  amusement.  Prodigious  people,  authors,  in  Brod- 
rick's  opinion.  More  than  once,  by  way  of  relieving  his  some- 
what perfunctory  communion  with  Miss  Collett,  he  had  discussed 
the  eccentricity,  the  vanity,  the  inexhaustible  absurdity  of  au- 
thors.    So  that  it  was  permissible  for  her  to  smile. 

"  You  are  not,"  he  said,  "  expecting  either  of  my  sisters  ?  " 

He  said  it  in  his  most  casual,  most  uninterested  voice.  And 
yet  she  detected  an  undertone  of  anxiety.  He  did  not  want 
his  sisters  to  be  there  when  Miss  Holland  came.  She  had  spent 
three  years  in  studying  his  inflections  and  his  wants. 

"  Not  specially  to-day,"  she  said. 

Brodrick  became  manifestly  entangled  in  the  process  of  his 
thought.  The  thought  itself  was  as  yet  obscure  to  her.  She 
inquired,  therefore,  where  Miss  Holland  was  to  be  "  shown  in." 
Was  she  a  drawing-room  author  or  a  library  author? 

In  the  perfect  and  unspoken  conventions  of  Brodrick's  house 
the  drawing-room  was  Miss  Collett's  place,  and  the  library  was 
his.  Tea  in  the  drawing-room  meant  that  he  desired  Miss 
Collett's  society;  tea  in  the  library  that  he  preferred  his  own. 
There  were  also  rules  for  the  reception  of  visitors.  Men  were 
shown  into  the  library  and  stayed  there.  Great  journalistic 
ladies  like  Miss  Caroline  Bickersteth  were  shown  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. Little  journalistic  ladies  with  dubious  manners, 
calling,  as  they  did,  solely  on  business,  were  treated  as  men  and 
confined  strictly  to  the  library. 

Brodrick's  stare  of  surprise  showed  Gertrude  that  she  had 
blundered.  He  had  a  superstitious  reverence  for  those  authors 
who,  like   Mr.   Tanqueray,  were  great. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Collett,  do  you  know  who  she  is  ?  The 
drawing-room,  of  course,  and  all  possible  honour." 


THE     CREATORS  159 

She  laughed.  She  had  cultivated  for  Brodrick's  sake  the 
art  of  laughter,  and  prided  herself  upon  knowing  the  precise 
moments  to  be  gay. 

"  I  see,"  she  said.  And  yet  she  did  not  see.  How  could 
there  be  any  honour  if  he  did  not  want  his  sisters  to  be  there? 
"  That  means  the  best  tea-service  and  my  best  manners  ?  " 

He  didn't  know,  he  said,  that  she  had  any  but  the  best. 

How  good  they  were  she  let  him  see  when  he  presented  Miss 
Holland  on  her  arrival,  her  trailing,  conspicuous  arrival.  Ger- 
trude had  never  given  him  occasion  to  feel  that  his  guests  could 
have  a  more  efficient  hostess  than  his  secretary.  She  spoke 
of  the  pleasure  it  gave  her  to  see  Miss  Holland,  and  of  the 
honour  that  she  felt,  and  of  how  she  had  heard  of  Miss  Holland 
from  Mr.  Brodrick.  There  was  no  becoming  thing  that  Ger- 
trude did  not  say.  And  all  the  time  she  was  aware  of  Brod- 
rick's eyes  fixed  on  Miss  Holland  with  chat  curious  lack  of  dif- 
fuseness  in  their  vision. 

Brodrick  was  carrying  it  off  by  explaining  Gertrude  to  Miss 
Holland. 

"  Miss  Collett,"  he  said,  "  is  a  wonderful  lady.  She  's  always 
doing  the  most  beautiful  things,  so  quietly  that  you  never  knew 
they  're  done." 

"  Does  anybody,"  said  Jane,  "  know  how  the  really  beautiful 
things  are  done  ?  " 

"  There 's  a  really  beautiful  tea,"  said  Miss  Collett  gaily, 
"  in  the  garden.  There  are  scones  and  the  kind  of  cake  you 
like." 

"You  see,"  Brodrick  said,  "how  she  spoils  me,  how  T  lie 
on  roses." 

"  You  'd  better  come,"  said  Miss  Collett,  "  while  the  scones 
are  still  hot." 

"  WHiile,"  said  Jane,  "  the  roses  are  still  fresh." 

He  held  the  door  open  for  her,  and  on  the  threshold  she 
turned  to  Miss  Collett  who  followed  her. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  said  she,  "  that  he 's  the  horrid  Sybarite 
you   think   him  ?  " 


160  THECEEATOES 

"  I  am,"  said  Brodrick,  "  whatever  Miss  Collett  thinks  me. 
If  it  pleases  her  to  think  I  'm  a  Sybarite  I  've  got  to  be  a. 
Sybarite." 

"  I  see.  And  when  the  rose-leaves  are  crumpled  you  bring 
them  to  Miss  Collett,  and  she  irons  them  out,  and  makes  them 
all  smooth  again,  so  that  you  don't  know  they  're  the  same  rose- 
leaves  ?  " 

"  The  rose-leaves  never  are  crumpled." 

"  Except  by  some  sudden,  unconsidered  movement  of  your 
own  ?  " 

"  My  movements,"  said  Brodrick,  "  are  never  sudden  and  un- 
considered." 

"What?     Never?" 

Miss  Collett  looked  a  little  surprised  at  this  light-handed 
treatment  of  the  editor. 

And  Jane  observed  Brodrick  with  a  new  interest  as  they  sat 
there  in  the  garden  and  Miss  Collett  poured  out  tea.  "  Mr. 
Brodrick,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  is  going  to  marry  Miss  Collett, 
though  he  does  n't  know  it." 

By  the  end  of  the  afternoon  it  seemed  to  her  an  inevitable 
consummation,  the  marriage  of  Mr.  Brodrick  and  Miss  Collett. 
She  could  almost  see  it  working,  the  predestined  attraction  of 
the  eternally  compatible,  the  incomparably  fit.  And  when  Brod- 
rick left  off  taking  any  notice  of  Miss  Collett,  and  finally  lured 
Jane  away  into  the  library  on  the  flimsiest  pretence,  she  won- 
dered what  game  he  was  up  to.  Perhaps  in  his  innocence  he 
was  blind  to  Miss  Collett's  adoration.  He  was  not  sure  of  Miss 
Collett.     He  was  trying  to  draw  her. 

Jane,  intensely  interested,  advanced  from  theory  to  theory  of 
Brodrick  and  Miss  Collett  while  Brodrick  removed  himself  to 
the  writing-table,  and  turned  on  her  a  mysterious  back. 

"  I  want  to  show  you  something,"  he  said. 

She  went  to  him.  In  the  bared  centre  of  the  writing-table 
he  had  placed  a  great  pile  of  manuscript.  He  drew  out  his 
chair  for  her,  so  that  she  could  sit  down  and  look  well  at  the 
wonder. 


THE     CREATORS  161 

Her  heart  leaped  to  the  handwriting  and  to  George  Tan- 
queray's  name  on  the  title-page. 

"You've  seen  it?"  he  said. 

"  N"o.     Mr.  Tanqiieray  never  shows  his  work." 

From  some  lair  in  the  back  of  the  desk  he  swept  forward  a 
prodigious  array  of  galley  proofs.  Tanqueray's  novel  was  in 
the  first  number  of  the  "  Monthly  Review." 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried,  looking  up  at  him. 

"  I  've  pleased  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  You  have  pleased  me  very  much." 

She  rose  and  turned  away,  overcome  as  by  some  desired  and 
unexpected  joy.  He  followed  her,  making  a  cushioned  place 
for  her  in  the  chair  by  the  hearth,  and  seated  himself  opposite 
her. 

"  I  was  very  glad  to  do  it,"  he  said  simply. 

"  It  will  do  you  more  good  than  Hambleby,"  she  said. 

"You  know  I  did  not  think  so,"  said  he.  And  there  was  a 
pause  between  them. 

"  Mr.  Brodrick,"  she  said  presently,  "  do  you  really  want  a 
serial  from  me  ?  " 

"  Do  I  want  it !  " 

"  As  much  as  you  think  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  always,"  said  he,  "  want  things  as  much  as  I  think  I  do." 

She  smiled,  wondering  whether  he  thought  he  wanted  Miss 
Collett  as  much  as  he  obviously   did. 

"  What  ? "  he  said.  "  Are  you  going  to  let  me  have  the 
next  ?  " 

"  I  had  thought  of  it.     If  you  really  do " 

"  Have  you  had  any  other  offers  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  several.     But " 

"  You  must  remember  mine  is  only  a  new  venture.  And  you 
may  do  better " 

It  was  odd,  but  a  curious  uncertainty,  a  modesty  had  come 
upon  him  since  she  last  met  him.  He  had  been  then  so  absurd, 
so  arrogant  about  his  magazine. 

"  I  don't  want  to  do  better." 


162  THECEEATOKS 

"  Of  course,  if  it 's  only  a  question  of  terms " 

It  was  incredible,  Brodrick's  depreciating  himself  to  a  mere 
question  of  terms.     She  flushed  at  this  dreadful  thought. 

"  It  is  n't,"  she  said.     "  Oh  !     I  did  n't  mean  that/' 

"  You  never  mean  that.  Wliich  is  why  I  must  think  of  it 
for  you.     I  can  at  least  offer  you  higher  terms," 

"  But,"  she  persisted,  "  I  should  hate  to  take  them.  I  want 
you  to  have  the  thing.  That 's  to  say  I  want  yoii  to  have  it. 
You  must  not  go  paying  me  more  for  that." 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  you  want  to  make  up." 

She  looked  at  him.  He  was  smiling  complacently,  in  the 
fulness  of  his  understanding  of  her. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Holland,"  he  went  on,  "  there  must  be  no 
making  up.     Nothing  of  that  sort  between  you  and  me." 

"  There  is  n't,"  she  said.  "  What  is  there  to  make  up  for  ? 
For  your  not  getting  me  ?  " 

He  smiled  again  as  if  that  idea  amused  him. 

"  Or,"  said  she,  "  for  my  making  you  take  Mr.  Tanqueray  ?  " 

"  You  did  n't  make  me,"  he  said.  "  I  took  him  to  please 
you." 

"  Well,"  she  said ;  "  and  you  '11  take  me  now,  to  please  me." 

She  rose. 

"  I  must  say  good-bye  to  Miss  Collett.  How  nice,"  she  said, 
"  Miss  Collett  is." 

"  Is  n't  she  ?  "  said  he. 

He  saw  her  politely  to  the  station. 

That  evening  he  drank  his  coffee  politely  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Miss  Collett. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  Miss  Holland  thinks  you  're 
nice." 

To  his  wonder  Miss  Collett  did  not  look  as  if  the  information 
gave  her  any  joy. 

"  Did  she  say  so  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Do  you  think  her  nice  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  What,"  said  he,  "  do  you  really  think  of  her  ?  "  He  was 
in  the  habit  of  asking  Miss  Collett  what  she  thought  of  people. 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S  163 

It  interested  him  to  know  what  women  thought,  especially  what 
they  thought  of  other  women. 

It  was  in  the  spirit  of  their  old  discussions  that  she  now 
replied. 

"  You  can  see  she  is  a  great  genius.  They  say  geniuses  are 
bad  to  live  with.     But  I  do  not  think  she  would  be." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  was  considering  very  profoundly 
the  question  she  had  raised, 

WHiich  was  precisely  what  Miss  Collett  meant  that  he  should 
do. 

As  the  silver-chiming  clock  struck  ten  she  rose  and  said  good- 
night. She  never  allowed  these  sittings  to  be  prolonged  past 
ten.     Neither  did  Brodrick. 

"  And  I  am  not  to  read  any  more  proofs  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Do  you  like  reading  them  ?  " 

She  smiled.  "  It 's  not  because  I  like  it.  I  simply  wanted 
to  save  you." 

"  You  do  save  me  most  things." 

"  I  try,"  she  said  sweetly,  "  to  save  you  ail." 

He  smiled  now.  "  There  are  limits,"  he  said,  "  even  to 
your  power  of  saving  me.     And  to  my  capacity  for  being  saved." 

The  words  were  charged  with  a  significance  that  Brodrick 
himself  was  not  aware  of;  as  if  the  powers  that  worked  in  him 
obscurely  had  used  him  for  the  utterance  of  a  divination  not 
his  own. 

His  secretary  understood  him  better  than  he  did  himself. 
She  had  spent  three  years  in  understanding  him.  And  now, 
for  the  first  time  in  three  years,  her  lucidity  was  painful. 

She  could  not  contemplate  serenely  the  thing  she  thought 
she  had  seen.  Therefore  she  drew  a  veil  over  it  and  refused  to 
believe  that  it  was  there. 

"  He  did  not  mean  anything,"  said  Gertrude  to  herself.  "  He 
is  not  the  sort  of  man  who  means  things."     Which  was  true. 


XX 

BRODRICK,  living  on  Putney  Heath,  was  surrounded  by 
his  family.  It  was  only  fifteen  minutes'  walk  from  his 
front  door  to  his  brother  John's  house  in  Augustus  Road,  Wim- 
bledon; only  five  minutes  from  his  back  door  to  Henry's  house 
in  Roehampton  Lane.  You  went  by  a  narrow  foot-track  down 
the  slope  to  get  to  Henry.  You  crossed  the  Heath  by  Wimble- 
don Common  to  get  to  John.  If  John  and  Henry  wanted  to 
get  to  each  other,  they  had  to  pass  by  Brodrick's  house. 

Moor  Grange  was  a  half-way  liouse,  the  great  meeting-place 
of  all  the  Brodricks. 

One  fine  warm  Sunday  in  mid-May,  about  four  o'clock,  all 
the  Brodricks  except  Hugh  were  assembled  on  Hugh's  lawn. 
There  was  Mr.  John  Brodrick,  the  eldest  brother,  the  head  of 
the  firm  of  Brodrick  and  Brodrick,  Electrical  Engineers.  There 
was  Dr.  Henry  Brodrick,  who  came  next  to  John.  He  had 
brought  Mrs.  Heron,  their  sister  (Mrs.  Heron  lived  with  Henry, 
because  Mr.  Heron  had  run  away  with  the  governess,  to  the 
unspeakable  scandal  of  the  Brodricks).  There  was  Mrs.  Louis 
Levine,  who  came  next  to  Mrs.  Heron.  There  was  Mrs.  John 
Brodrick,  not  to  be  separated  from  her  husband,  who,  in  a 
decorous  dumbness  and  secrecy,  adored  her;  and  Mr.  Louis 
Levine,  who  owed  his  position  among  the  Brodricks  to  the  very 
properly  apparent  devotion  of  his  wife. 

And  there  were  children  about.  Eddy  and  Winny  Heron, 
restless,  irrepressible  in  their  young  teens,  sprawled  at  their 
mother's  feet  and  hung  over  her  in  attitudes  of  affection.  One 
very  small  Levine  trotted  to  and  fro  on  fat  legs  over  the  lawn. 
The  other,  too  small  to  run,  could  be  seen  in  the  background, 
standing  in  Gertrude  Collett's  lap  and  trampling  on  her. 

The  Levines  had  come  over  from  St.  John's  Wood,  packed 

164 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S  165 

tight  in  their  commodious  brand-new  motor-car,  the  symbol  of 
Levine's  prosperity.  So  that  all  Brodrick's  family  were  at  Put- 
ney this  afternoon. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  delicate  shadow  of  the  lime-tree. 
Outside,  the  lawn  was  drenched  with  light,  liglit  tliat  ran  quiv- 
ering into  the  little  inlets  and  pools  among  the  shadows.  The 
cropped  grass  shone  clear  as  emerald,  and  all  the  garden  showed 
clear-cut  and  solid  and  stable  in  its  propriety  and  order. 

Still  more  distinct,  more  stable  and  more  solid,  more  inerad- 
icably  fixed  in  order  and  propriety,  were  the  four  figures  of  the 
Brodricks.  Sitting  there,  in  a  light  that  refused,  in  spite  of 
the  lime-tree,  to  lend  itself  to  any  mystery  or  enchantment,  they 
maintained  themselves  in  a  positively  formidable  reality.  All 
these  Brodricks  had  firm,  thick-skinned  faces  in  which  lines  came 
slowly,  and  were  few  but  strong.  Faces,  they  were,  of  men 
who  have  lived  in  absolute  sobriety  and  sanity,  untorn  by  any 
temptation  to  live  otherwise;  faces  of  women  to  whom  mother- 
hood has  brought  the  ultimate  content. 

Comfortably  material  persons,  sitting  in  a  deep  peace,  not  to 
be  rapt  from  it  by  any  fantasy,  nor  beguiled  by  any  dream,  they 
paid  only  in  a  high  morality  their  debt  to  the  intangible. 

This  afternoon,  in  spite  of  themselves,  they  were  roused  some- 
what from  the  peace  they  sat  in.  They  were  expecting  some- 
body. 

"  I  suppose,  when  she  arrives,  we  shall  all  have  to  sit  at  the 
lady's  feet,"  said  Mrs.  Levine. 

"7've  no  objection,"  said  the  Doctor;  "after  what  she's 
done." 

"  It  was  pretty  decent  of  her,"  said  Levine.  He  was  dark, 
nervous  and  solemn-eyed,  a  lean  man  of  his  race,  and  handsome. 
Sophy  Brodrick  had  not  loved  her  husl^and  when  she  married 
him.  She  adored  him  now,  because  of  the  beauty  that  had 
passed  from  him  into  her  children. 

"I  say.  Uncle  Louis,  you  might  tell  me  what  she  did  do," 
said  Eddy  Heron. 

"  She  got  your  TJnclo  Hughy  out  of  a  tight  place,  my  boy." 

"  I  say,  what 's  he  been  doing  ?  " 


166  THECEEATOES 

Mr.  Levine  smiled  inscrutably,  while  his  wife  shook  her 
head  at  him. 

"  He 's  been  going  it,  has  he  ?     Good  old  Uncle  Hughy !  " 

Eddy's  mother  thought  it  would  be  nice  if  he  and  Winny 
went  down  the  Heath  road  to  meet  Uncle  Hughy  and  Miss 
Holland.  Whereupon  Eddy  embraced  his  mother,  being  unable 
to  agree  with  her. 

"  You  really  believe,"  said  Mr.  John  Brodrick,  who  seemed 
anxious  to  be  sure  of  his  facts  before  he  committed  himself, 
"  you  really  believe  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  this  lady  he  'd 
have  had  to  give  it  up  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Levine  judicially,  "  she  practically  saved  it. 
You  see  he  would  start  it  with  George  Tanqueray.  And  who 
cares  about  George  Tanqueray  ?  That 's  what  wrecked  him.  I 
told  him  at  the  time  it  was  sheer  lunacy,  but  he  would  n't  listen 
to  me.  Whi/  "  (Levine  spoke  in  a  small  excited  voice  with  sud- 
den high  notes),  "he  hadn't  subscriptions  enough  to  float  the 
thing  for  twenty-four  hours.  As  soon  as  he  gets  Miss  Holland 
they  go  up  by  leaps  and  bounds,  and  it 's  bin  goin'  steady  ever 
since.     How  long  it  '11  keep  goin 's  another  thing." 

"  I  understood  Hugh  to  say,"  said  John,  "  that  the  arrange- 
ments involved  some  considerable  sacrifice  to  the  lady." 

"  Well,  you  see,  he  'd  been  a  bit  of  an  ass.  He  'd  made  her  a 
ridiculous  offer,  an  offer  we  simply  could  n't  afford,  and  we  had 
to  tell  her  so." 

"  And  then,"  said  Sophy,  "  you  might  as  well  mention  that 
she  gave  it  him  for  what  you  could  afford." 

"  She  certainly  let  him  have  it  very  cheap."  He  ruminated. 
"  Uncommonly  cheap  —  considering  what  her  figure  is." 

Eddy  wanted  to  know  what  Miss  Holland's  figure  had  to  do 
with  his  Uncle  Hughy.  Winny,  round-eyed  with  wonder,  in- 
quired if  it  was  beautiful,  and  was  told  that  it  was  fairly  beau- 
tiful, a  tidy  figure,  a  nice  round  figure,  like  her  Aunt  Sophy's. 

"  That,"  said  John,  "  was  very  decent  of  her." 

"  "Very,"  said  the  gentle  lady,  Mrs.  John. 

"  It  was  splendid,"  said  Mrs.  Heron. 


THECREATOES  167 

The  Doctor  meditated.  "  I  wonder  why  she  did  it,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

His  brother-in-law  explained.  "  Oh,  she  thought  she  'd  let 
him  in  for  Tanquera}^" 

"  Let  him  in  f  " 

"  Don't  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Heron,  "  it  was  her  idea  of  hon- 
our." 

"  A  woman's  idea  of  honour,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  You  need  n't  criticize  it,"  said  his  sister  Sophy. 

"  I  don't,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Levine,  "  what  with  her  idea  of  honour 
and  Hugh's  idea  of  honour,  the  office  had  a  pretty  rough  time 
of  it  till  they  got  the  business  fixed." 

"  With  Hugh's  ideas,"  said  John,  "  he 's  hardly  likely  to 
make  this  thing  pay,  is  he  ?  Especially  if  he  's  going  to  bar 
politics." 

He  said  it  importantly.  By  a  manner,  by  wearing  spectacles, 
and  brushing  his  hair  back  in  two  semi-circles  from  his  fore- 
head, Mr.  John  Brodrick  contrived  to  appear  considerably  more 
important  than  he  was. 

"  Ah,  he  's  made  a  mistake  there,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  That 's  what  I  tell  him."  Levine  was  more  excited  than 
ever. 

"  I  should  think  he  might  be  allowed  to  do  what  he  likes," 
said  Sophy.     "After  all,  it's  his  magazine." 

Mr.  Levine's  face  remained  supernaturally  polite  while  it 
guarded  his  opinion  that  it  was  n't  his  brother-in-law's  maga- 
zine at  all.  They  had  disagreed  about  Tanqueray.  They  had 
disagreed  about  everything  connected  with  the  magazine,  from 
the  make-up  of  the  first  number  to  the  salary  of  the  sub-editor. 
They  had  almost  quarreled  about  what  Levine  called  "  Miss 
Holland's  price."  And  now,  when  his  wife  said  that  it  was 
Sunday  —  and  if  they  were  going  to  talk  business  all  the  after- 
noon —  she  was  told  that  Hugh's  magazine  was  n't  business. 
It  was  Hugh's  game.  (His  dreadfully  expensive,  possibly  ruin- 
ous game.) 


168  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  you  might  let  him  play  it.  I  'm  sure 
he  works  hard  enough  on  your  horrid  old  '  Telegraph.'  " 

Sophy  invariably  stood  up  for  her  family  against  her  hus- 
band. But  she  would  have  stood  up  for  her  husband  against 
all  the  world. 

"  Thank  you,  my  pet."  She  stooped  to  the  little  three-year- 
old  girl  who  trotted  to  and  fro,  offering  to  each  of  these  mys- 
teriously, deplorably  preoccupied  persons  a  flower  without  a 
stalk. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Brodrick  arrived  from  the  station 
with  Miss  Holland. 

"  Is  it  a  garden-party  ?  "  Jane  inquired. 

"  No,"   said   Brodrick,   "  it 's  my  family." 

She  came  on  with  him  over  the  lawn.  And  the  group  rose 
to  its  feet;  it  broke  up  with  little  movements  and  murmurs, 
in  a  restrained,  dignified  expectancy.  Jane  had  the  sense  of 
being  led  towards  some  unaccountable  triumph  and  acclama- 
tion. 

They  closed  round  her,  these  unknown  Brodricks,  inaudibly 
stirred,  with  some  unspoken,  incomprehensible  emotion  in  the 
men's  gaze  and  in  the  women's  touch.  The  big  boy  and  girl 
shared  it  as  they  came  forward  in  their  shyness,  with  affection- 
ate faces  and  clumsy,  abortive  encounters  of  the  hand. 

It  was  the  whole  Brodrick  family  moved  to  its  depths,  feeling 
as  one.  It  could  only  be  so  moved  by  the  spectacle  of  integrity 
and  honour  and  incorruptible  loyalty  to  It. 

Still  moved,  it  was  surrounding  Jane  when  a  maid  arrived 
with  the  tea-table,  and  the  white  cloth  waved  a  signal  to  Miss 
Collett  across  the  lawn.  There  was  then  a  perceptible  pause  in 
the  ovation  as  Brodrick's  secretary  appeared. 

Even  across  the  lawn  Jane  could  discern  trouble  in  Miss 
Collett's  face.  But  Miss  Collett's  face  was  plastic  in  readjust- 
ments, and  by  the  time  she  was  fairly  on  the  scene  it  had  recap- 
tured the  habit  of  its  smile.  The  smile,  in  greeting,  covered 
and  carried  off  the  betraying  reluctance  of  her  hand.  It  implied 
that,  if  Miss  Holland  was  to  be  set  up  in  a  high  place  and 
worshipped,  Miss  Collett  was  anxious  to  observe  the  appropriate 


THE     CREATORS  169 

ritual.  Having  observed  it,  she  took,  with  her  quiet,  incon- 
spicuous assurance,  the  place  that  was  her  own.  She  gave  but 
one  sign  of  her  trouble  when  Dr.  Brodrick  was  heard  congratu- 
lating their  guest  on  the  great  serial  which,  said  he,  by  "  saving  " 
the  magazine,  had  "  saved  "  his  brother.  Then  Gertrude  quiv- 
ered slightly,  and  the  blood  flushed  in  her  set  face  and  passed 
as  fierce  heat  passes  through  iron. 

While  they  were  talking  Jane  had  opportunity  to  watch  and 
wonder  at  the  firm,  consolidated  society  that  was  Brodrick's 
family.  These  faces  proclaimed  by  their  resemblance  the  ma- 
terial link.  Mr.  John  Brodrick  was  a  more  thick-set,  an  older, 
graver-lined,  and  grizzled  Hugh,  a  Hugh  who  had  lost  his 
sombre  fixity  of  gaze.  Dr.  Henry  Brodrick  was  a  tall,  atten- 
uated John,  with  a  slightly,  ever  so  slightly  receding  chin.  Mrs. 
Heron  was  Hugh  again  made  feminine  and  slender.  She  had 
Hugh's  features,  refined  and  diminished.  She  had  Hugh's  eyes, 
filled  with  some  tragic  sorrow  of  her  own.  Her  hair  was  white, 
every  thread  of  it,  though  she  could  not  have  been  more  than 
forty-five. 

These  likenesses  were  not  so  apparent  at  first  sight  in  Mrs. 
Levine,  the  golden,  full-blown  flower  of  the  Brodricks.  They  had 
mixed  so  thoroughly  and  subtly  that  they  merged  in  her  smooth- 
ness and  her  roundness.  And  still  the  facial  substance  showed 
in  the  firm  opacity  of  her  skin,  the  racial  soul  asserted  itself  in 
her  poised  complacence  and  decision. 

"  You  don't  know,"  she  was  saying,  "  how  we  're  all  sitting 
at  your  feet." 

"We  are  indeed,"  said  Mr.  John  Brodrick. 

"  Very  much  so,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Even  little  Cissy,"  said  Hugh. 

For  little  Cissy  was  bringing  all  her  stalkless  flowers  to  Jane; 
smiling  at  her  as  if  she  alone  possessed  the  secret  of  this  play. 
Brodrick  watched,  well-pleased,  the  silent  traffic  of  their  tender- 
nesses. 

The  others  were  talking  about  Hambleby  now.  They  had  all 
read  him.  They  had  all  enjoyed  him.  They  all  wanted  more 
of  him. 


170  THE     CREATORS 

"  If  we  could  only  have  had  Hambleby,  Miss  Holland,"  said 
Levine.     "  It  was  n't  my  fault  that  we  did  n't  get  him." 

Jane  remembered  that  this  was  the  brother-in-law  whom 
Brodrick  had  wanted  to  keep  out.  He  had  the  air  of  being  per- 
sistently, permanently  in. 

"  Of  course  it  was  n't  your  fault,"  said  she. 

Levine  then  thought  it  necessary  to  say  things  about  Jane's 
celebrity  till  Brodrick  cut  him  short. 

"  Miss  Holland,"  he  said,  "  does  n't  like  her  celebrity.  You 
need  n't  talk  about  it." 

John  and  Henry  looked  graver  than  ever,  and  Sophy  made 
sweet  eyes  at  Jane.  Sophy's  eyes  —  when  they  looked  at 
you  —  were  very  sweet.  It  was  through  her  eyes  only  that  she 
apologized  for  her  husband,  whose  own  eyes  were  manifestly  in- 
capable of  apologizing  for  anything.  The  Brodricks  seemed  to 
tolerate  their  brother-in-law;  and  he  seemed,  more  sublimely,  to 
tolerate  their  tolerance. 

Great  eJEforts  were  now  made  to  divert  Levine  from  the  maga- 
zine. Mr.  John  Brodrick  headed  him  off  with  motors  and  their 
makers ;  the  Doctor  kept  his  half-resentful  spirit  moving  briskly 
round  the  Wimbledon  golf-links;  and  Hugh,  with  considerable 
dexterity,  landed  him  securely  on  the  fiscal  question,  where  he 
might  be  relied  upon  to  stay. 

But  it  was  the  Baby  who  saw  what  was  to  be  done  if  his  parent 
was  to  be  delivered  from  his  own  offensiveness. 

"  Oh,  look !  "  cried  Winny.  "  Look  at  Baby.  Making  such 
a  ducky  angel  of  himself." 

The  Baby,  having  sat  down  abruptly  on  the  grass,  was  making 
a  ducky  angel  of  himself  by  wriggling  along  it,  obliquely,  as 
he  sat. 

At  the  sight  of  him  all  the  Brodricks  instantaneously  lost  their 
seriousness  and  sanity.  He  was  captured  and  established  as  the 
centre  of  the  group.  And,  in  the  great  act  of  adoration  of  the 
Baby,  Levine  was  once  more  united  to  his  wife's  family. 

His  wife's  family,  like  his  wife,  could  forgive  anything  to 
Louis  Levine  because  of  the  babies.     It  reserved  its  disapproval 


THE     CEEATOES  '  171 

for  Mrs.  John  Brodrick  who  had  never  had  any;  who  had  never 
done  anything  that  was  expected  of  her.  Mrs.  John  looked  as 
if  she  had  cried  a  great  deal  because  of  the  things  she  had  not 
done.  She  had  small  hazel  eyes  with  inflamed  lids,  and  a  small 
high  nose  that  was  always  rather  red.  She  was  well  born,  and 
she  carried  her  low-browed,  bird-like  head  among  the  Brodricks 
with  a  solitary  grace,  and  the  motions  of  a  dignified,  distin- 
guished bird. 

And  now,  in  mute  penitence  and  wistful  worship,  she  pros- 
trated herself  before  their  divinity,  the  Baby. 

And  in  the  middle  of  it  all,  with  amazing  smiles  and  chuckles, 
the  Baby  suddenly  renounced  his  family  and  held  out  his  arms 
to  Jane.  And  suddenly  all  the  Brodricks  laughed.  His  mother 
laughed  more  than  any  of  them.  She  took  the  Baby,  and  set 
him  at  Jane's  feet ;  and  he  sat  there,  looking  at  Jane,  as  at  some 
object  of  extraordinary  interest  and  wonder  and  fascination. 
And  Brodrick  looked  at  both  of  them  with  something  of  the 
same  naif  expression,  and  the  Doctor,  the  attenuated,  meditative 
Doctor,  looked  at  all  three,  but  especially  at  his  brother.  Ger- 
trude Collett  looked,  now  at  Brodrick  and  now  at  Jane. 

Brodrick  did  not  see  the  Doctor  or  Gertrude  either.  It  had 
just  struck  him  that  Jane  was  not  in  the  least  like  her  portrait, 
the  portrait.  He  was  thinking,  as  Tanqueray  had  once  thought, 
that  Gisborne,  R.  A.,  was  an  ass,  and  that  if  he  could  have  her 
painted  he  would  have  her  painted  as  she  looked  now. 

As  he  was  trying  to  catch  the  look,  Gertrude  came  and  said 
it  was  the  Baby's  tea-time,  and  carried  him  away.  And  the  look 
went  from  Jane's  face,  and  Brodrick  felt  annoyed  with  Gertrude 
because  she  had  made  it  go. 

Then  Mrs.  John  came  up  and  tried  very  hard  to  talk  to  Jane. 
She  was  nervously  aware  that  conversation  was  expected  of  her 
as  the  wife  of  the  head  of  the  family,  and  that  in  this  thing 
also  she  had  failed  him.  She  was  further  oppressed  by  Miss 
Holland's  celebrity,  and  by  the  idea  she  had  that  Miss  Holland 
must  be  always  thinking  of  it  and  would  not  like  to  see  it  thus 
obscured  by  any  other  interest. 


172  THECEEATOKS 

And  while  Mrs.  John  sat  beside  her,  painfully  and  pensively 
endeavouring  to  converse,  Jane  heard  Brodrick  talking  to  Mra. 
Levine, 

"  "VMiere  's  Gertrude  gone  ?  "  he  said. 

And  Mrs.  Levine  answered,  "  She 's  indoors  with  the  chil- 
dren." 

Mrs.  John  was  saying  that  Miss  Holland  must  have  known 
Hambleby ;  and  then  again  that  no,  that  was  n't  likely.  That 
was  what  made  it  so  wonderful  that  she  should  know.  Mrs. 
John  could  not  have  done  it.  She  recounted  sorrowfully  the 
number  of  things  she  could  not  do.  And  through  it  all  Jane 
heard  the  others  talking  about  Gertrude. 

"  Gertrude  looks  very  ill,"  said  Mrs.  Levine.  "  What 's  the 
matter  with  her  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  Brodrick.     "  Ask  Henry." 

"  Miss  Collett,"  said  the  Doctor  solemnly,  "  has  not  consulted 
me." 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Heron  delivered  Jane  from  Mrs.  John. 
She  said  she  wanted  Miss  Holland  to  see  the  sweet-peas  in  the 
kitchen  garden. 

And  in  the  kitchen  garden,  among  the  sweet-peas,  Mrs.  Heron 
thanked  Jane  on  her  own  account  for  what  she  had  done,  while 
Jane  kept  on  saying  that  she  had  done  nothing.  All  down  the 
kitchen  garden  there  was  an  alley  of  sweet-peas  with  a  seat 
at  the  end  of  it,  and  there  they  sat  while  Mrs.  Heron  talked 
about  her  brother  Hugh  who  had  been  so  good  to  her  and  to  her 
children.  This  praise  of  Brodrick  mingled  with  the  scent  of 
the  sweet-peas,  so  that  Jane  could  never  again  smell  sweet-peas 
in  a  hot  garden  without  hearing  Brodrick's  praise. 

Mrs.  Heron  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  she  could  say  no  more,  as 
if,  indeed,  she  had  said  too  much,  as  if  she  were  not  used  to 
saying  such  things. 

"  My  brother  thinks  I  may  ask  you  to  come  and  see  me.  Will 
you  ?     Will  you  come  some  day  and  stay  with  me  ?  " 

In  spite  of  the  voice  that  told  her  that  she  was  being  drawn, 
that  this  family  of  Brodrick's  was  formidable,  that  she  must 
be  on  her  guard  against  all  arms  stretched  out  to  her,  before  she 


THECREATOES  173 

knew  what  she  was  doing  Jane  had  said,  Yes;  she  would  be 
very  glad. 

Voices  came  to  them  then,  and  down  the  long  alley  between 
the  sweet-peas  she  saw  Brodrick  coming  towards  them  with 
Miss  Collett  and  Winny  Heron;  and  Jane  was  suddenly  aware 
that  it  was  getting  late. 

It  was  cold,  too.     She  shivered.     Miss  Collett  offered  a  wrap. 

For  a  moment,  in  the  hall  of  the  house,  Jane  was  alone  with 
Brodrick's  secretary.  Through  the  open  door  they  could  see 
Brodrick  standing  on  the  lawn,  talking  to  his  sister.  Mrs. 
Heron  held  him  by  one  arm,  Winny  dragged  on  the  other. 

"  Those  two  seem  devoted  to  Mr.  Brodrick,"  said  Jane. 

"  They  ought  to  be,"  said  Miss  Collett,  "  with  all  he  does  for 
them.  And  they  are.  The  Brodricks  are  all  like  that."  She 
looked  hard  at  Jane.  "  If  you  've  done  anything  for  them,  they 
never  forget  it.     They  keep  on  paying  back." 

Jane  smiled. 

"  I  imagine  Mr.  Hugh  Brodrick  would  be  quite  absurd  about 
it." 

"Oh,  lie "     Gertrude  raised  her  head.     Her  eyes  adored 

him. 

As  if  her  pause  were  too  profoundly  revealing,  she  filled  it 
up.  "  He  '11  always  give  more  than  he  gets.  It  is  n't  for  you 
he  gives,  it 's  for  himself.  He  likes  giving.  And  when  it 
comes  to  paying  him  back " 

"  That 's  where  he  has  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

And  Jane  thought,  "  My  dear  lady,  if  you  would  n't  treat  him 
quite  so  like  a  god,  he  might  have  a  chance  to  discover  that  he  's 
mortal." 

She  would  have  liked  to  have  said  that  to  Miss  Collett.  She 
would  have  liked  to  have  taken  Brodrick  to  the  seat  at  the  end 
of  the  alley  and  have  said  to  him,  "  It 's  all  perfectly  right. 
Don't  be  an  idiot  and  miss  it.  You  can't  do  a  better  thing  for 
yourself  than  marry  her,  and  it 's  the  only  way,  you  know,  you 
can  pay  her  back.  Don't  you  see  that  you  're  cruel  to  her  ?  That 
it's  you  that's  making  her  ill?     She  can't  look  pretty  when 


174  THECKEATORS 

she 's  ill,  but  she  'd  be  quite  pretty  if  you  made  her  happy." 

But  all  she  said  was,  "  He  's  like  that,  is  he  ?  "  And  she  went 
out  to  where  he  waited  for  her. 

"  Have  you  got  to  go?  "  he  said. 

She  said.  Yes,  she  was  half  expecting  Nina  Lempriere. 

"The  fiery  lady?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  may  as  well  stay.     She  won't  be  there,"  said  Brodriek. 

But  Jane  did  not  stay. 

The  whole  family  turned  out  on  to  the  Heath  to  see  them  go. 
At  the  end  of  the  road  they  looked  back  and  saw  it  there. 
Sophy  Levine  was  holding  up  the  Baby  to  make  him  wave  to 
Jane. 

"  Why  did  you  tell  them  ?  "  she  said  reproachfully  to  Brod- 
riek. 

"  Because  I  wanted  them  to  like  you." 

"  Am  I  so  disagreeable  that  they  could  n't  —  without  that  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  you,"  he  said,  "  to  like  them." 

«  I  do  like  them." 

He  glanced  at  her  sidelong  and  softly. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said.  "  What  have  they  done  to  look  so  happy, 
and  so  perfectly  at  peace  ?  " 

"  That 's  it.     They  have  n't  done  anything." 

"  Not  to  do  things  —  that 's  the  secret,  is  it  ?  " 

."  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  almost  think  it  is." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  she. 


XXI 

BEODRICK  was  right.     Nina  was  not  there. 
At  the  moment  when  Jane  arrived,  anxious  and  expectant, 
in  Kensington  Square,  Nina  and  Tanqueray  were  sitting  by  the 
window  of  the  room  in  Adelphi  Terrace. 

They  were  both  silent,  both  immobile  in  the  same  attitude, 
bowed  forward,  listening  intently,  the  antagonistic  pair  made 
one  in  their  enchantment,  their  absorption. 

A  young  man  stood  before  Tanqueray.  He  stood  a  little  be- 
hind Nina  where  she  sat  in  the  window-seat.  One  shoulder 
leaned  beside  her  against  the  shutter.  He  was  very  tall,  and  as 
he  stood  there  his  voice,  deep  and  rhythmic,  flowed  and  vibrated 
above  them,  giving  utterance  to  the  thing  that  held  them. 

Nina  could  not  see  him  where  she  sat.  It  was  Tanqueray  who 
kept  on  looking  at  him  with  clear,  contemplative  eyes  under 
brows  no  longer  irritable. 

He  was,  Tanqueray  thought,  rather  extraordinary  to  look  at. 
Dressed  in  a  loosely-fitting  suit  of  all  seasons,  he  held  himself 
very  straight  from  the  waist,  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  slackness 
of  his  build.  His  eyes,  his  alien,  star-gazing  eyes,  were  blue  and 
uncannily  clear  under  their  dark  and  delicate  brows.  He  had 
the  face  of  a  Celt,  with  high  cheek-bones,  and  a  short  high  nose; 
the  bone  between  the  nostrils,  slightly  prominent  like  a  buttress, 
saved  the  bridge  of  it  from  the  final  droop.  He  had  the  wide 
mouth  of  a  Celt,  long-lipped,  but  beautifully  cut.  His  thick 
hair,  his  moustache,  his  close-clipped,  pointed  beard,  were  dark 
and  dry.  His  face  showed  a  sunburn  whitening.  It  had  passed 
through  strange  climates.  He  had  the  look,  this  poet,  of  a  man 
who  had  left  some  stupendous  experience  behind  him;  who  had 
left  many  things  behind  him,  to  stride,  star-gazing,  on.  His 
face  revealed  him  as  he  chanted  his  poems.  Unbeautiful  in  de- 
tail, its  effect  as  a  whole  was  one  of  extraordinary  beauty,  as  of 

175 


176  THECEEATORS 

some  marvellously  pure  vessel  for  the  spiritual  fire.  Beside  him, 
it  struck  Tanqueray  that  Nina  showed  more  than  ever  a  murky 
flame. 

The  voice  ceased,  but  the  two  remained  silent  for  a  moment. 

Then  Tanqueray  spoke  one  word,  "  Splendid !  " 

Nina  turned  her  head  and  looked  up  at  the  poet.  His  eyes 
were  still  following  his  vision.     Her  voice  recalled  him. 

"Owen,"  she  said,  "will  you  bring  the  rest?  Bring  down 
all  you  've  got." 

Tanqueray  saw  as  she  spoke  to  him  that  there  came  again  that 
betraying  tenderness  about  her  mouth ;  as  she  looked  at  him,  her 
eyes  lifted  their  hoods,  revealing  the  sudden  softness  and  sur- 
render. 

And  as  Tanqueray  watched  her  he  was  aware  that  the  queer 
eyes  of  the  man  were  turned  on  him,  rather  than  on  Nina. 
They  looked  through  him,  as  if  they  saw  with  a  lucidity  even 
more  unendurable  than  his,  what  was  going  on  in  Tanqueray's 
soul. 

He  said  something  inaudible  to  Nina  and  went  out  of  the 
room  with  a  light,  energetic  stride. 

"  How  can  you  stand  his  eyes  ?  "  said  Tanqueray ;  "  it 's  like 
being  exposed  to  the  everlasting  stare  of  God." 

"  It  is,  rather." 

"  What 's  his  name  again  ?  " 

*'  Owen  Prothero." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  him." 

She  told  him  what  she  knew.  Prothero  was,  as  Tanqueray 
saw,  an  unlicked  Celt.  He  had  been,  if  Tanqueray  would  be- 
lieve it,  in  the  Indian  Medical  Service,  and  had  flung  it  up  be- 
fore he  got  his  pension.  He  had  been  to  British  Central  Africa 
on  a  commission  for  investigating  sleeping  sickness ;  he  spoke 
of  it  casually  as  if  it  w^ere  the  sort  of  thing  you  naturally  were 
on.  He  had  volunteered  as  a  surgeon  in  the  Boer  War,  And 
with  it  all  he  was  what  Tanqueray  saw. 

"  And  his  address  ?  "  Tanqueray  inquired. 

"  He  lives  here." 


THE     CREATORS  177 

"  Why  should  n't  he  ?  "  He  answered  her  challenging  eyes. 
They  shot  light  at  him. 

"He  is  a  great  poet?     I  was  right?" 

"  Absolutely,  He 's  great  enough  for  anybody.  How  on 
earth  did  you  get  hold  of  him  ?  " 

She  was  silent.  She  seemed  to  be  listening  for  the  sound  of 
Prothero's  feet  on  the  stair. 

He  was  soon  with  them,  bringing  his  sheaf  of  manuscript. 
He  had  brought  all  he  had  got.  The  chanting  began  again  and 
continued  till  the  light  failed. 

And  as  Tanqueray  listened  the  restless,  irritable  devilry  passed 
from  his  face.  Salient,  thrust  forward  toward  Prothero,  it  was 
the  face  of  a  winged  creature  in  adoration,  caught  suddenly  into 
heaven,  breasting  the  flood  of  the  supernal  light.  For  Tanque- 
ray could  be  cruel  in  his  contempt  for  all  clevernesses  and  little- 
nesses, for  all  achievements  that  had  the  literary  taint;  but  he 
was  on  his  knees  in  a  moment  before  the  incorruptible  divinities. 
He  had  the  immortal's  scent  for  immortality. 

When  the  chanting  ceased  they  talked. 

Tanqueray  warned  Prothero  of  the  horrors  of  premature  re- 
nown. Prothero  declared  that  he  had  none.  Nobody  knew  his 
name. 

"  Good,"  said  Tanqueray.  "  Celebrity's  all  very  well  at  the 
end,  when  you  've  done  the  things  you  want  to  do.  It 's  a  bad 
beginning.  It  does  n't  matter  quite  so  much  if  you  live  in  the 
country  where  nobody's  likely  to  know  you  're  celebrated  till 
you  're  dead.  But  if  you  will  live  in  London,  your  only  chance 
is  to  remain  obscure." 

"  There  are  in  London  at  this  moment,"  he  continued,  "  about 
one  thousand  celebrated  authors.  There  are,  I  imagine,  about 
fifty  distinct  circles  where  they  meet.  Fifty  distinct  hells 
where  they  're  bound  to  meet  each  other.  Hells  where  they  're 
driven  round  and  round,  meeting  each  other.  Steaming  hells 
where  they  sit  stewing  in  each  other's  sweat " 

"  Don't,  George !  "  cried  Nina. 

"  Loathsome  hells,  where  they  swarm  and  squirm  and  wriggle 


178  THECEEATORS 

in  and  out  of  each  other.  Sanguinary,  murderous  hells,  where 
they  're  all  tearing  at  each  other  's  throats.  How  can  you  hope, 
how  can  you  possibly  hope  to  do  anything  original,  if  you  're 
constantly  breathing  that  atmosphere  ?  Horrid  used-up  air  that 
authors  —  beasts !  —  have  breathed  over  and  over  and  over 
again." 

"  As  if,"  said  Nina,  "  ive  were  n't  authors." 

"  My  dear  Nina,  nobody  would  think  it  of  us.  Nobody  would 
have  thought  it  of  Jinny  if  she  had  n't  gone  and  got  celebrated." 

"  You  '11  be  celebrated  yourself  some  day." 

"  I  shall  be  dead,"  said  he.  "  I  shan't  know  anything  about 
it." 

At  this  point  Prothero,  with  an  exquisite  vagueness,  stated 
that  he  wanted  to  get  work  on  a  paper.  He  was  not,  he  inti- 
mated, looking  to  his  poems  to  keep  him.  On  the  contrary,  he 
would  have  to  keep  them. 

Tanqueray  wondered  if  he  realized  how  disastrous,  how  ruin- 
ous they  were.  He  had  no  doubt  about  Nina's  poet.  But  there 
were  poets  and  poets.  There  were  dubious,  delicate  splendours, 
for  ever  trembling  on  the  verge  of  immortality.  And  there 
were  the  infrequent,  enormous  stars  that  wheel  on  immeasurable 
orbits,  so  distant  that  they  seem  of  all  transitory  things  most 
transitory.  Prothero  was  one  of  these.  There  was  not  much 
chance  for  him  in  his  generation.  His  poems  were  too  por- 
tentously inspired.  They  were  the  poems  of  a  saint,  a  seer, 
an  exile  from  life  and  time.  He  stood  alone  on  the  ultimate, 
untrodden  shores,  watching  strange  tides  and  the  courses  of 
unknown  worlds.  On  any  reasonable  calculation  he  could  not 
hope  to  make  himself  heard  for  half  a  century,  if  then.  There 
was  something  about  him  alien  and  terrible,  inaccessibly  divine. 
The  form  of  his  poems  was  uncouth,  almost  ugly.  Their  har- 
monies, stupendous  and  unforeseen,  struck  the  ear  with  the  shock 
of  discord. 

It  was,  of  course,  absurd  that  he  should  want  work  on  a 
paper;  still  more  absurd  that  he  should  think,  or  that  Nina 
should  think,  that  Tanqueray  could  get  it  for  him. 

He  did  n't,  it  appeared,  expect  anybody  to  get  it  for  him.     He 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S  179 

just  wrote  things,  things  that  he  thought  were  adequately  im- 
becile, and  shot  them  into  letter-boxes.  As  to  what  became  of 
them,  Tanqueray  had  never  seen  anybody  more  unsolicitous, 
more  reckless  of  the  dark  event. 

He  went  away  with  Prothero's  poems  in  his  pocket. 

Nina  followed  him  and  held  him  on  the  doorstep. 

"You  do  believe  in  him?"  she  said. 

"  What 's  the  good  of  nij/  believing  in  him  ?  I  can't  help  him. 
I  can't  help  myself.  He  's  got  to  wait,  Nina,  like  the  rest  of  us. 
It  won't  hurt  him." 

"  It  will.  He  can't  wait,  George.  He 's  desperately  poor. 
You  must  do  something." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  There  are  things,"  she  said,  "  that  people  always  do." 

"  I  could  offer  him  a  five-pound  note ;  but  he  would  n't  take 
it." 

"  No.  He  would  n't  take  it.  You  can  do  better  than  that. 
You  can  get  him  to  meet  that  man  of  yours." 

"  What  man  ?  " 

"  That  magazine  man,  Brodrick." 

He  laughed.  "  Considering  that  I  all  but  did  for  him  and 
his  magazine !  Brodrick  's  Jane  Holland's  man,  not  mine,  you 
know.     Have  you  told  Jane  about  Prothero  ?  " 

"  No." 

A  faint  flame  leaped  in  her  face  and  died. 

"  You  'd  better,"  he  said.  "  She  can  do  anything  with  Brod- 
rick. She  could  even  make  him  take  a  poem.  Why  did  n't  you 
ask  Prothero  to  meet  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  seen  her  for  six  months." 

"Is  that  your  fault  or  hers?" 

"  Neither."" 

"  He  's  had  to  wait,  then,  six  months  ?  " 

There  was  no  escaping  his  diabolical  lucidity. 

"  Go  and  see  her  at  once,"  he  went  on,  "  and  take  Pro- 
thero. That 's  more  to  the  point,  you  know,  than  his  seeing 
me.  Jinny  is  a  powerful  person,  and  then  she  has  a  way  witli 
her." 


180  THECEEATOKS 

Again  the  flame  leaped  in  her  face  and  died,  slowly,  as  under 
torture. 

"  Even  Laura  can  do  more  for  him  than  I.  She  knows  people 
on  papers.  Take  him  to  see  Laura."  He  was  backing  out  of 
the  doorway. 

"  It  was  you,"  she  said,  "  that  he  wanted  to  see.  I  promised 
him." 

Her  face,  haggard,  restless  with  the  quivering  of  her  agonized 
nerves,  was  as  a  wild  book  for  him  to  read.  He  was  sorry  for 
her  torture.     He  lingered. 

"  I  'd  go  and  speak  to  Brodrick  to-morrow,  only  he  loathes 
the  sight  of  me,  and  I  can't  blame  him,  poor  devil." 

"  It 's  no  matter,"  she  said.     "  I  '11  write  to  Jane  Holland." 

"  Do.     She  '11  get  him  work  on  Brodrick's  paper." 

He  went  away,  meditating  on  Nina  and  her  medical,  surgical 
poet.  She  would  have  to  write  to  Jinny  now.  But  she 
would  n't  take  him  to  see  her.  She  was  determined  to  keep  him 
to  herself.  That  was  why  none  of  them  had  seen  anything  of 
Nina  for  six  months.  There  was  (he  came  back  to  it  again) 
something  very  murky  about  Nina.  And  Nina,  with  her  murki- 
ness,  was  manifestly  in  love  with  this  spiritual,  this  mystical 
young  man.  So  amazing  was  the  part  set  her  in  the  mortal 
comedy.  He  would  give  a  good  deal  to  know  what  Prothero 
thought  of  Nina. 

Prothero  could  have  told  him  that  he  thought  of  Nina  as  he 
thought  of  his  own  youth. 

He  was  of  her  mother's  race  and  from  her  country  of  the 
Marches.  He  knew  more  about  Nina  than  Tanqueray  had  ever 
known.  He  knew  the  Lemprieres,  a  family  of  untamed  heredi- 
tary wildness.  He  knew  Nina  as  the  survival  of  a  hereditary 
doom,  a  tragedy  untiring,  relentless,  repeated  year  after  year 
and  foreseen  with  a  terrible  certainty.  He  knew  that  it  had  left 
her  with  her  bare  genius,  her  temperament  and  her  nerves. 

It  was  of  all  things  most  improbable  that  he  should  l)e  here 
in  London,  lodged  in  one  room,  with  only  the  bare  boards  of  it 
between  him  and  Nina  Lempriere. 


THE     CEEATOES  181 

The  improbability  of  it  struck  Nina  as  she  went  to  and  fro  in 
the  inner  room,  preparing  their  supper. 

There  had  been  no  acquaintance  between  her  and  young 
Prothero,  the  medical  student.  If  their  ways  met  it  was  only 
by  accident,  at  long  intervals,  and  always,  she  remembered,  out 
of  doors,  on  her  mountains.  They  used  to  pass  each  other  with 
eyes  unseeing,  fixed  in  their  own  dream.  That  was  fifteen  years 
ago.     In  all  that  time  she  had  not  seen  him. 

He  had  drawn  her  now  by  his  shyness,  his  horror  of  other 
people,  his  perfect  satisfaction  in  their  solitary  communion. 
Virgin  from  his  wild  places,  he  had  told  her  that  she  was  the 
only  woman  he  was  not  afraid  of.  He  had  attached  himself  to 
her  manifestly,  persistently,  with  the  fidelity  of  a  wild  thing 
won  by  sheer  absence  of  pursuit.  She  had  let  him  come  and 
go,  violently  aware  of  him,  but  seeming  unaware.  He  would 
sit  for  hours  in  her  room,  reading  while  she  wrote,  forgetting 
that  upstairs  his  fire  was  dying  in  the  grate. 

He  had  embraced  Poverty  like  a  saint.  He  regarded  it  as 
the  blessed  state  of  every  man  who  desired  to  obey  his  own 
genius  at  all  costs.  He  was  all  right,  he  said.  He  had  lived  on 
rice  in  the  jungle.  He  could  live  on  rice  at  a  pinch  now.  And 
he  could  publish  his  poems  if  he  got  work  on  the  papers.  On 
this  point  Nina  found  him  engagingly,  innocently  open  to  sug- 
gestion. She  had  suggested  a  series  of  articles  on  the  problem 
of  the  East.  He  had  written  the  articles,  but  in  such  a  style  and 
in  such  a  spirit  that  no  editor  had  as  yet  dared  to  publish  them. 

It  was  possible  that  he  would  have  a  chance  with  Brodrick 
who  was  braver  than  other  editors.  Brodrick  was  his  one 
chance. 

She  would  have  suggested  his  meeting  Brodrick,  but  that  the 
way  to  Brodrick  lay  through  Jane  Holland.  She  remembered 
that  the  gods  had  thrust  Jane  Holland  between  her  and  George 
Tanqueray;  and  she  was  determined  that  they  should  put  no 
woman  between  her  and  Owen  Prothero.  She  had  taken  pos- 
session of  him  and  she  meant  to  keep  him  to  herself.  The 
supreme,  irresistible  temptation  was  to  keep  him  to  herself.     It 


182  THBCEBATOKS 

dominated  her  desire  to  serve  his  interests.  But  she  had  not 
refused  him  when  he  owned,  shyly,  that  he  would  like  to  see 
George  Tanqueray,  the  only  living  writer,  he  maintained, 
who  had  any  passion  for  truth,  any  sweep,  any  clearness  of 
vision. 

It  was  Tanqueray,  with  that  passion,  that  diabolical  lucidity, 
that  vision  of  his,  who  had  made  her  realize  the  baseness  of  her 
secrecy.  She  had  no  right  to  keep  Owen  to  herself.  He  was 
too  valuable. 

His  innocence  had  given  a  sting  to  her  remorse.  He  had  re- 
mained so  completely  satisfied  with  what  she  had  done  for  him, 
so  wholly  unaware  of  having  been  kept  obscure  when  celebrity 
was  possible.  Things  came,  he  seemed  to  say,  or  they  did  n't 
come.     If  you  were  wise  you  waited. 

With  his  invincible  patience  he  was  waiting  now,  in  her  room 
up-stairs,  standing  before  the  bookcase  with  his  back  to  the  door. 
He  stood  absolutely  still,  his  head  and  shoulders  bowed  over  the 
book  he  was  manifestly  not  reading.  In  this  attitude  he  had 
an  air  of  masterly  indifference  to  time,  of  not  caring  how  long 
he  waited,  being  habituated  to  extravagant  expenditure  of  mo- 
ments and  of  days.  Absorbed  in  some  inward  and  invisible  act, 
he  was  unaware  of  Nina  as  she  entered. 

She  called  him  to  the  supper  she  had  made  ready  for  him.  He 
swung  round,  returning  as  it  were  from  an  immense  distance, 
and  followed  her. 

He  was  hungry,  and  she  had  a  fierce  maternal  joy  in  seeing 
him  eat.  It  was  after  supper  that  they  talked,  as  they  sat  by 
the  window  in  the  outer  room,  looking  at  the  river,  a  river  of 
night,  lamp-starred. 

Nina  began  it.  "  Owen,"  she  said,  "  how  did  George  Tan- 
queray strike  you  ?  " 

He  paused  before  he  spoke.  "  I  think,"  he  said,  "  I  never  in 
my  life  saw  anybody  more  on  the  look-out.  It 's  terrible,  that 
prowling  genius,  always  ready  to  spring." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  he  sees  everything." 

"  No,  Nina,  he  does  n't.  He 's  a  man  whose  genius  has  made 
away  with   one  half  of  his  capacity  for  seeing.     That's  his 


THECEEATOES  183 

curse !     If  your  eyes  are  incessantly  looking  out  they  lose  the 
power  of  looking  in." 

"  And  yet,  he  's  the  only  really  great  psychologist  we  've  got. 
He  and  Jane  Holland." 

"  Yes,  as  they  go,  your  psychologists.  Tanqueray  sees  so 
much  inside  other  people  that  he  can't  see  inside  himself. 
What 's  worse,  I  should  n't  think  he  'd  see  far  inside  the  people 
who  really  touch  him.     It  comes  of  perpetually  looking  away." 

"You  don't  know  him.     How  can  you  tell?" 

"  Because  I  never  look  away." 

"  Can  you  see  what 's  going  on  inside  mef  " 

"  Sometimes.     I  don't  always  look." 

"  Can  you  help  looking  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  can." 

"  You  may  look.  I  don't  think  I  mind  your  looking.  Why," 
she  asked  abruptly,  "  don't  I  mind  ?  " 

Her  voice  had  an  accent  that  betrayed  her. 

"  Because  there  's  nothing  inside  you  that  you  're  ashamed  of." 

She  reddened  with  shame;  shame  of  the  fierce,  base  instinct 
that  had  made  her  keep  him  to  herself.  She  knew  that  nothing 
escaped  him.  He  had  the  keen,  comprehending  eyes  of  the 
physician  who  knows  the  sad  secrets  of  the  body;  and  he  had 
other  eyes  that  saw  inward,  that  held  and  drew  to  confession 
the  terrified,  reluctant  soul.  She  had  an  insane  longing  to  throw 
herself  at  his  feet  in  confession. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but  there  are  things And  yet " 

He  stopped  her.  "  Nothing,  Nina,  if  vou  really  knew  your- 
self." 

"  Owen  —  it 's  not  that.  It 's  not  because  I  don't  know  my- 
self. It 's  because  I  know  you.  I  know  that,  whatever  there 
might  be  in  me,  whatever  I  did,  however  low  I  sank  —  if  I  could 
sink  —  your  charity  would  be  there  to  hold  me  up.  And  it 
would  n't  be  your  charity,  either.  I  could  n't  stand  your  charity. 
It  would  n't  even  be  understanding.  You  don't  understand  me. 
It  would  be  some  knowledge  of  me  that  I  could  n't  have  myself, 
that  nobody  but  you  could  have.  As  if  whatever  you  saw  you  'd 
say,  '  That'is  n't  really  Nina,'  " 


184  THE     CEEATOES 

"  I  should  say,  '  That 's  really  Nina,  so  it 's  all  right.'  " 

She  paused,  brooding  on  the  possibilities  he  saw,  that  he  was 
bound  to  see,  if  he  saw  anything.  Did  he,  she  wondered,  really 
see  what  was  in  her,  her  hidden  shames  and  insanities,  the  course 
of  the  wild  blood  that  he  knew  must  flow  from  all  the  Lemprieres 
to  her  ?  She  lived,  to  be  sure,  the  life  of  an  ascetic  and  took  it 
out  in  dreams.  Yet  he  must  see  how  her  savage,  solitary  passion 
clung  to  him,  and  would  not  let  go.  Did  he  see,  and  yet  did  he 
not  condemn  her? 

"  Owen,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  do  you  mind  seeing  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  hate  it.  These  are  n't  the  things,  you  know,  I 
want  to  see." 

She  lowered  her  eyes.  Her  nervous  hand  moved  slowly  to 
and  fro  along  the  window-sill,  measuring  her  next  words. 

"  What  —  do  you  want  —  to  see  ?  " 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  at  her.  At  her,  not  through 
her,  and  she  wondered,  had  he  seen  enough  ?  It  was  as  if  he 
withdrew  himself  before  some  thought  that  stirred  in  her,  men- 
acing to  peace. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said.     "  I  can't  talk  about  it." 

Then  she  knew  what  he  meant.  He  was  thinking  of  his 
vision,  his  vision  of  God. 

He  could  not  speak  of  it  to  her.  She  had  never  know  him. 
This  soul,  with  which  her  own  claimed  kindred,  was  hidden  from 
her  by  all  the  veils  of  heaven. 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  Only  tell  me  one  thing.  Was  that 
what  you  went  out  to  India  and  Central  Africa  to  see  ?  " 

That  drew  him. 

"  No.  I  went  out  not  to  see  it.  To  get  away  from  it.  I 
meant  to  give  things  their  chance.  That 's  why  I  went  in  for 
medicine.  I  was  n't  going  to  shirk.  I  wanted  to  be  a  man. 
Not  a  long-haired,  weedy  thing  in  a  soft  hat." 

"  Was  it  any  good  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  proved  the  unreality  of  things.  I  proved  it  up  to 
the  hilt.     And  I  did  n't  shirk." 

"  But  you  wanted  to  escape,  all  the  time  ?  " 


THE     CREATORS  185 

"  I  did  n't  escape,  I  could  n't.  I  could  n't  catch  cholera,  or 
plague,  or  sleeping  sickness.     I  could  n't  catch  anything." 

"  You  tried  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  gave  myself  a  chance.  That  was  only  fair.  But 
it  was  no  use.     I  could  n't  even  get  frightened." 

"  Owen  —  some  people  would  say  you  were  morbid." 

"  iSTo,  they  would  n't.  They  'd  say  I  was  mad.  They  will  say 
it  when  I  've  published  those  poems." 

"  Did  you  mind  my  showing  them  to  George  Tanqueray  ?  " 

"  No.     But  it 's  no  use.     Nobody  knows  my  name." 

"  May  I  show  them  to  Jane  Holland  ?  " 

"  Show  them  to  any  one  you  like.     It  '11  be  no  use  either." 

"  Owen  —  does  it  never  occur  to  you  that  any  human  being 
can  be  of  use  ?  " 

"  No."  He  considered  the  point.  "  No,  I  can't  say  it  ever 
does." 

He  stood  before  her,  wrapped  in  his  dream,  removed  from  her, 
utterly  forgetful. 

She  had  her  moment  of  pain  in  contemplating  him.  He  saw 
it  in  her  face,  and  as  it  were  came  back  to  her. 

"  Don't  imagine,"  he  said,  "  that  I  don't  know  what  ijou  've 
done.     Now  that  I  do  know  you." 

She  turned,  almost  in  anger.  "  I  've  done  nothing.  You 
don't  know  me."  She  added,  "  I  am  going  to  write  to  Jane 
Holland." 

Wlien  he  had  left  her  she  sat  a  long  while  by  the  window, 
brooding  on  the  thing  that  had  happened  to  her  a  second  time. 

She  had  fallen  in  love;  fallen  with  the  fatality  of  the  Lem- 
prieres,  and  with  the  fine  precipitate  sweep  of  her  own  genius. 
And  she  had  let  herself  go,  with  the  recklessness  of  a  woman 
unaware  of  her  genius  for  loving,  with  the  superb  innocence, 
too,  of  all  spontaneous  forces.  Owen's  nature  had  disarmed  her 
of  all  subterfuges,  all  ordinary  defences  of  her  sex.  They  were 
absurd  in  dealing  with  a  creature  so  remote  and  disembodied. 

She  knew  that  in  his  way,  his  remote  and  disembodied  way, 
he  cared  for  her.     She  knew  that  in  whatever  place  he  held  her 


186  THECEEATOES 

she  was  alone  there.  She  was  the  only  woman  for  whom  as  yet 
he  had  cared.  His  way  was  not  Tanqueray's  way.  It  was  a  way 
that  kept  her  safe.  She  had  sworn  that  there  were  to  be  no 
more  George  Tanquerays;  and  there  were  none.  She  had  done 
with  that. 

ISTot  but  that  she  was  afraid  of  Owen.  She  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  him  in  fear,  a  secret,  unallowed  possession,  a  holding 
with  hands  invisible,  intangible.  For  she  had  wisdom,  the  sad 
wisdom  of  the  frustrate;  it,  and  the  insight  of  her  genius,  told 
her  that  Owen  would  not  endure  a  tie  less  spiritual  than  friend- 
ship. She  knew  George  Tanqueray's  opinion  of  her.  He  was 
justified. 

But  though  she  sacrificed  so  far  to  spirit,  it  was  her  flesh 
and  blood  that  shrank  from  the  possible  communion  of  Owen 
Prothero  and  Jane  Holland.  For  Jinny,  as  Tanqueray  said, 
had  a  way  with  her;  and  she  knew  Jinny's  way.  Jinny  would 
take  Owen  Prothero  from  her  as  she  had  taken  George,  not  de- 
liberately, not  because  she  wanted  to,  but  because  she  was  Jinny 
and  had  a  way.  Besides,  Jane  could  do  for  him  what  she  with 
her  bare  genius  could  not  do,  and  that  thought  was  insupport- 
able to  Nina.  Yesterday  she  had  been  everything  to  him.  To- 
morrow Jane  would  be  as  much,  or  more. 

And  there  were  other  women.  They  would  be  as  ready  as 
she  to  take  possession.  They  would  claim  his  friendship,  and 
more  than  she  had  claimed,  as  the  reward  of  having  recognized 
him.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  give  Owen  up,  and 
hand  him  over  to  them.  And  this  was  what  she  would  do  if  she 
wrote  that  letter  to  Jane  Holland, 

She  rose,  and  went  to  her  desk  and  wrote  it. 


XXII 

JANE  answered  at  once.     If  Xina  would  bring  Prothero  to 
Kensington  on  Friday  at  four  o'clock  he  would  meet  Hugh 
Brodrick. 

But  Prothero  refused  to  be  taken  anywhere.  He  would  not 
go  hanging  about  women's  drawing-rooms.  It  was  the  sort  of 
thing,  he  said,  that  did  you  harm.  He  wanted  to  hold  on  to 
what  he  'd  got.  It  was  tricky ;  it  came  and  went ;  it  was  all  he 
could  do  to  hold  on  to  it;  and  if  he  got  mixed  up  with  women 
he  was  done  for.     Of  course  he  was  profoundly  grateful. 

Xina  assured  Jane  that  Mr.  Prothero  was  profoundly  grate- 
ful. But  he  was,  she  said,  a  youth  of  an  untamable  shyness. 
He  was  happy  in  an  Indian  jungle  or  an  African  swamp,  but 
civilized  interiors  seemed  to  sadden  him.  She  therefore  pro- 
posed that  Tanqueray,  who  had  the  manuscript,  should  read  it 
to  an  audience,  chosen  wuth  absolute  discretion.  Two  or  three 
people,  not  a  horrid  crowd.  For  the  poems,  she  warned  her 
fairly,  were  all  about  God ;  and  nowadays  people  did  n't  care 
about  God.  Owen  Prothero  did  n't  seem  to  care  much  about 
anything  else.     It  was  bound,  she  said,  to  handicap  him. 

Jane  consented.  After  all,  the  poems  were  the  thing.  For 
audience  she  proposed  Hugh  Brodrick,  Caro  Bickersteth,  Laura, 
and  Arnott  Xicholson.  Dear  Xicky,  who  really  was  an  angel, 
could  appreciate  people  who  were  very  far  from  appreciating  him. 
He  knew  a  multitude  of  little  men  on  papers,  men  who  write 
you  up  if  they  take  a  fancy  to  you  and  go  about  singing  your 
praises  everywhere.  Xicky  himself,  if  strongly  moved  to  it, 
might  sing.  Xicky  was  a  good  idea,  and  there  was  Laura  who 
also  wrote  for  the  papers. 

The  reading  was  fixed  for  Friday  at  four  o'clock.  Tanqueray, 
who  detested  readings,  had  overcome  his  repugnance  for  Pro- 
thero's  sake.     His  letter  to  Jane  was  one  fiery  eulogy  of  the 

187 


188  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

poet.  Brodrick  and  the  others  had  accepted  the  unique  invita- 
tion, Laura  Gunning  provisionally.  She  would  come  like  a 
shot,  if  she  could  get  off,  she  said,  but  things  were  going  badly 
at  the  moment. 

Laura,  however,  was  the  first  to  arrive. 
"  ^\Tio  is  this  man  of  Nina's  ?  "  said  she. 
"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.     I  never  heard  of  him  till  the  other 
day." 

She  showed  her  Nina's  letter. 

Laura's  face  was  sullen.     It  indicated  that  things  were  going 
very  badly  indeed ;  that  Laura  was  at  the  end  of  her  tether. 
"  But  why  God  ?  "  was  her  profane  comment. 
"  Because,  I  imagine,  he  believes  in  him." 
Laura  declared  that  it  was  more  than  she  did.     She  preferred 
not  to  believe  in  him,  after  the  things  that  had  been  done  to 
Papa.     Her  arraignment  of  the  cosmic  order  was  cut  short  by 
the  arrival  of  George  Tanqueray. 

Nina  appeared  next.  She  was  followed  by  Hugh  Brodrick 
and  by  Caro  Bickersteth.     Nicky  came  last  of  all. 

He  greeted  Jane  a  little  mournfully.  It  was  impossible  for 
Nicky  to  banish  altogether  from  his  manner  the  delicate  reproach 
he  felt,  impossible  not  to  be  alive  to  the  atrocious  irony  that 
brought  him  here  to  be,  as  Jane  said,  an  angel,  to  sit  and  listen 
to  this  fellow  Prothero.  He  understood  that  they  were  all  there 
to  do  something  for  Prothero.  Brodrick  had  been  brought  solely 
for  that  purpose.  Tanqueray,  too,  and  Miss  Bickersteth  and 
Miss  Gunning,  and  he.  Jane  Holland  was  always  asking  him  to 
do  things,  and  she  had  never  done  anything  for  him.  There 
was  Brodrick's  magazine  that  he  had  never  got  into.  Jane  Hol- 
land had  only  got  to  speak  to  Brodrick,  only  got  to  say  to  him 
that  Arnott  Nicholson  was  a  rather  fine  poet  and  the  thing  was 
done.     It  was  a  small  thing  and  an  easy  thing  for  her  to  do. 

It  was  not  so  much  that  he  wanted  her  to  do  things.  He 
even  now  shrank,  in  his  delicacy,  from  the  bare  idea  of  her  do- 
ing them.  For  all  his  little  palpitating  ambition,  Nicky  shrank. 
What  hurt  him  was  the  unavoidable  inference  he  drew.     When 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S  189 

a  woman  cares  for  a  man  she  does  not  doom  him  to  obscurity 
by  her  silence,  and  Jane  least  of  all  women.  He  knew  her.  He 
knew  what  she  had  done  for  Tanqueray  because  she  cared. 

And  now  she  was  going  to  do  things  for  Owen  Prothero. 
Nicky  sat  dejected  in  the  sorrow  of  this  thought. 

Brodrick  also  was  oppressed.  He  was  thinking  of  his  maga- 
zine. It  had  been  saved  by  Jane  Holland,  but  he  was  aware 
that  at  this  rate  it  could  also  be  ruined  by  her.  He  knew  what 
he  was  there  for.  He  could  see,  with  the  terrible  foreknowledge 
of  the  editor,  that  Prothero  was  to  be  pressed  on  him.  He  was 
to  take  him  up  as  he  had  taken  up  Tanqueray.  And  from  all 
that  he  had  heard  of  Prothero  he  very  much  doubted  whether 
he  could  afford  to  take  him  up.  It  was  becoming  a  serious  prob- 
lem what  he  could  afford.  Levine  was  worrying  him.  Levine 
was  insisting  on  concessions  to  the  public,  on  popular  articles,  on 
politics.  He  had  threatened,  if  his  views  were  disregarded,  to 
withdraw  his  financial  co-operation,  and  Brodrick  realized  that 
he  could  not  as  yet  afford  to  do  without  Levine.  He  might  have 
to  refuse  to  take  Prothero  up,  and  he  hated  to  refuse  Jane  Hol- 
land anything. 

As  for  Laura,  she  continued  in  her  sullenness,  anticipating 
with  resentment  the  assault  about  to  be  made  upon  her  soul. 

And  Jane,  who  knew  what  passed  in  Brodrick's  mind,  was 
downcast  in  her  turn.  She  did  not  want  Brodrick  to  think  that 
she  was  making  use  of  him,  that  she  was  always  trying  to  get 
at  him. 

Tanqueray,  a  transformed,  oblivious  Tanqueray,  had  unrolled 
the  manuscript.  They  grouped  themselves  for  the  reading, 
Nina  on  a  corner  of  the  sofa ;  Jane  lying  back  in  the  other  cor- 
ner; Laura  looking  at  Tanqueray  over  Nina's  shoulder,  with  her 
chair  drawn  close  beside  her;  Nicholson  and  Brodrick  on  other 
chairs,  opposite  the  sofa,  where  they  could  look  at  Jane. 

It  was  to  this  audience  that  Tanqueray  first  read  young  Pro- 
thero's  poems  of  the  Vision  of  God ;  to  Laura,  who  did  n't 
believe  in  God;  to  Jane,  absorbed  in  her  embarrassments;  to 
Nina,  tortured  by  many  passions;  to  Hugh  Brodrick,  bearing 


190  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S 

visibly  the  financial  burden  of  his  magazine;  to  Caro  Bick- 
ersteth,  dubious  and  critical;  to  Nicky,  struggling  with  the  nieaq 
hope  that  Prothero  might  not  prove  so  very  good. 

They  heard  of  the  haunting  of  the  divine  Lover;  of  the  soul's 
mortal  terror ;  of  the  divine  pursuit,  of  the  flight  and  the  hiding 
of  the  soul,  of  its  crying  out  in  its  terror ;  of  its  finding ;  of  the 
divine  consummation ;  of  its  eternal  vision  and  possession  of  God. 

Nicky's  admirable  judgment  told  him  that  as  a  competitive 
poet  he  was  dished  by  Prothero.  He  maintained  his  attitude 
of  extreme  depression.  His  eyes,  fixed  on  Jane,  were  now 
startled  out  of  their  agony  into  a  sudden  wonder  at  Prothero, 
now  clouded  again  as  Nicky  manifestly  said  to  himself,  "  Dished, 
dished,  dished."  He  was  dished  by  Prothero,  dished  by  Tan- 
queray,  reduced  to  sitting  there,  like  an  angel,  conquering  his 
desire,  sublimely  renouncing. 

Brodrick's  head  was  bowed  forward  on  his  chest.  His  eyes, 
under  his  lowering  brows,  looked  up  at  Jane's,  gathering  from 
them  her  judgment  of  Owen  Prothero.  Prothero's  case  defied 
all  rule  and  precedent,  and  Brodrick  was  not  prepared  with  a 
judgment  of  his  own.  Now  and  then  a  gleam  of  comprehension, 
caught  from  Jane,  illuminated  his  face  and  troubled  it.  He 
showed,  not  as  a  happy  creature  of  the  flesh,  but  as  a  creature 
of  the  flesh  made  uncontent,  divinely  pierced  by  the  sharp  flame 
of  the  spirit. 

It  was  so  that  Jane  saw  him,  once,  when  his  persistent  gaze 
drew  hers  for  an  inconsiderable  moment.  Now  and  then,  at  a 
pause  in  the  reader's  voice,  Brodrick  sighed  heavily  and  shifted 
his  position. 

Nina  leaned  back  as  she  listened,  propping  her  exhausted 
body,  her  soul  surrendered  as  ever  to  the  violent  rapture;  caught 
now  and  carried  away  into  a  place  beyond  pain,  beyond  dreams, 
beyond  desire. 

And  Laura,  who  did  not  believe  in  God,  Laura  sat  motion- 
less, her  small  insni'gcnt  being  stilled  to  the  imperceptible 
rhythm  of  her  breath.  Over  her  face  there  passed  strange  lights, 
strange  tremors,  a  strange  softening  of  the  small  indomitable 
mouth.     It  was  more  than  ever  the  face  of  a  child,  of  a  flower. 


THECEEATOES  191 

of  all  things  innocent  and  open.  But  her  eyes  were  the  eyes 
of  a  soul  whom  vision  makes  suddenly  mature.  They  stared  at 
Tanqueray  without  seeing  him,  held  by  the  divine  thing  they 
saw. 

She  still  sat  so,  while  Brodrick  and  Nicholson,  like  men  re- 
leased, came  forward  and  congratulated  the  novelist  as  on  some 
achievement  of  his  own.  They  did  it  briefly,  restrained  by  the 
silence  that  his  voice  had  sunk  into.  Everybody's  nerves  were 
tense,  troubled  by  the  vibrating  passage  of  the  supersensual. 
The  discussion  that  followed  was  spasmodic  and  curt. 

Nicky  charged  into  the  silence  with  a  voice  of  violent  affirma- 
tion.    "  He  is  great,"  said  poor  Nicky. 

"  Too  great,"  said  Brodrick,  "  for  the  twentieth  century." 

Nina  reminded  him  that  the  twentieth  century  had  only  just 
begun,  and  Jane  remarked  that  it  had  n't  done  badly  since  it 
had  begun  with  him. 

Laura  said  nothing;  but,  as  they  parted  outside  in  the  square, 
she  turned  eastwards  with  Nina. 

"  Does  he  really  mind  seeing  people  ?  "  she  said. 

"  It  depends,"  said  Nina.     "  He  's  seen  George." 

"  Would  he  mind  your  bringing  him  to  see  me  some  day  ?  I 
want  to  know  him." 

Nina's  face  drew  back  as  if  Laura  had  struck  her.  Its  hag- 
gard, smitten  look  spoke  as  if  Nina  had  spoken.  "  What  do  you 
want  to  know  him  for  ?  "  it  said. 

"  He  has  n't  got  to  be  seen,"  said  Nina  herself  savagely.  She 
was  overwrought.     "  He 's  got  to  be  heard.     You  've  heard  him." 

"  It 's  because  I  've  heard  him  that  I  want  to  see  him." 

Nina  paused  in  her  ferocious  stride  and  glanced  at  the  little 
thing.  The  small  face  of  her  friend  had  sunk  from  its  ecstasy 
to  its  sullen  suffering,  its  despondency,  its  doubt. 

Nina  was  stung  by  compassion. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  him  very  much  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  would  n't  ask  you  if  I  did  n't." 

"  All  right.     You  shall.     I  '11  make  him  come." 


XXIII 

WITHIN"  a  fortnight  of  that  reading  Prothero  received  a 
letter  from  George  Tanqueray.  It  briefly  told  him  that 
the  lady  whom  he  had  refused  to  meet  had  prevailed  upon  her 
publishers  to  bring  out  his  poems  in  the  autumn,  at  their  own 
and  not  Prothero's  expense. 

How  the  miracle  had  been  worked  he  could  n't  conceive,  and 
Tanqueray  was  careful  to  leave  him  unenlightened.  It  had 
been  simply  a  stock  instance  of  Jinny's  way.  Jinny,  whose 
affairs  were  in  Tanqueray's  hands,  had  been  meditating  an  infi- 
delity to  Messrs.  Molyneux,  by  whom  Tanqueray  vehemently  as- 
sured her  she  had  been,  and  always  would  be,  "had."  They 
had  "  had  "  her  this  time  by  the  sacrificial  ardour  with  which 
they  soared  to  her  suggestion  that  Mr.  Prothero  should  be  pub- 
lished. Miss  Holland  must,  they  urged,  be  aware  that  Mr.  Pro- 
thero had  been  rejected  by  every  other  firm  in  London. 
They  were  sure  that  she  realized  the  high  danger  of  their  enter- 
prise and  that  she  appreciated  the  purity  of  their  enthusiasm. 
The  poems  were,  as  she  knew,  so  extraordinary  that  Mr.  Prothero 
had  not  one  chance  in  a  thousand  even  with  the  small  public 
that  read  poetry.  Still,  they  were  giving  Mr.  Prothero  his  frac- 
tional opportunity,  because  of  their  enthusiasm  and  their  de- 
sire to  serve  Miss  Holland.  They  understood  that  Miss  Hol- 
land was  thinking  of  leaving  them.  They  would  not  urge  her 
to  remain,  but  they  hoped  that,  for  her  own  sake,  she  would  re- 
consider it. 

Jane  had  reconsidered  it  and  had  remained. 

"  You  understand  clearly.  Jinny,"  Tanqueray  had  said,  "  that 
you  're  paying  for  Prothero's  poems  ?  " 

To  that  Jinny  had  replied,  "It's  what  I  wanted  to  do,  and 

there  was  n't  any  other  way." 

Owen  Prothero  could  no  longer  say  that  nobody  knew  his 

192 


THECREATOKS  193 

name.  His  innocence  was  unaware  of  the  secret  processes  by 
which  names  are  made  and  unmade;  but  he  had  gathered  from 
Nina  that  her  friends  had  created  for  him  a  rumour  and  repu- 
tation which  he  persistently  refused  to  incarnate  by  his  presence 
among  them.  Pie  said  he  wanted  to  preserve  his  innocence. 
Tanqueray's  retirement  was  not  more  superb  or  more  indignant; 
Tanqueray  had  been  fortuitously  and  infrequently  "  met " ;  but 
nobody  met  Prothero  anywhere.  Even  Jane  Holland,  the 
authentic  fount  of  rumour,  had  not  met  him. 

It  was  hard  on  Jane  that  she  who  was,  as  she  piteously 
pleaded,  the  prey  of  all  the  destroyers,  should  not  be  allowed  a 
sight  of  this  incomparable  creator.  But  she  respected  the  divine 
terror  that  kept  Nina's  unlicked  Celt  outside  women's  drawing- 
rooms. 

She  understood,  however,  that  he  was  to  be  seen  and  seen 
more  often  than  not,  at  Tanqueray's  rooms  in  Torrington 
Square.  Tanqueray's  wife  did  not  count.  She  was  not  the  sort 
of  woman  Prothero  could  be  afraid  of,  and  she  was  guiltless  of 
having  any  drawing-room.  Jane  remembered  that  it  was  a  long 
time  since  she  had  seen  Tanqueray's  wife. 

One  afternoon,  about  five  o'clock,  she  called  in  Torrington 
Square.  She  approached  the  house  in  some  anxiety,  afraid  of 
seeing  the  unhappy  little  face  of  Tanqueray's  wife  looking  out 
of  the  gi'ound-floor  window. 

But  Rose  was  not  at  the  window.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
across,  obviously  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  Rose.  A 
brougham  waited  before  the  door. 

Jane,  as  she  entered,  had  a  sense  of  secrecy  and  disturbance 
in  the  house.  There  was  secrecy  and  disturbance,  too,  in  the 
manner  of  the  little  shabby  maid  who  told  her  that  the  doctor 
was  in  there  with  Mrs.  Tanqueray. 

She  was  going  away  when  Tanqueray  came  out  of  the  sitting- 
room  where  the  doctor  was. 

"  Don't  go.  Jinny,"  he  said. 

She  searched  his  face. 

"  Oh,  George,  is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

He  raised  his  eyebrows.     His  moustache  tilted  with  them. 


194  THE     CEEA  TOES 

upwards.  She  recognized  the  gesture  with  which  he  put  dis- 
agreeable things  away  from  him. 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  no,"  he  said. 

"  May  I  see  her  —  afterwards  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  may  see  her.  But  "  —  he  smiled  —  "  if 
you  '11  come  upstairs  you  '11  see  Prothero." 

She  followed  him  to  the  room  on  the  top  floor,  his  refuge, 
pitched  high  above  Eose  and  her  movements  and  her  troubles. 

He  paused  at  the  door. 

"  He  may  thank  his  stars.  Jinny,  that  he  came  across  Nina 
instead  of  you." 

"  You  think  I  'd  better  keep  clear  of  him  ?  " 

"  No.     I  think  he  'd  better  keep  clear  of  you." 

"  George,  is  he  really  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he 's  there  all  right.  He 's  caught.  He  's  trapped. 
He  can't  get  away  from  you." 

"  I  won't,"  she  said.     "  It 's  dishonourable." 

He  laughed  and  they  went  in. 

The  poet  was  sitting  in  Tanqueray's  low  chair,  facing  them. 
He  rose  at  some  length  as  they  entered,  and  she  discerned  in 
his  eyes  the  instinct  of  savage  flight.  She  herself  would  have 
turned  and  fled,  but  for  the  singularity  of  such  precipitance. 
She  was  afraid  before  this  shyness  of  the  unlicked  Celt,  of  the 
wild  creature  trapped  and  caught  unaware,  by  the  guile  she 
judged  dishonourable. 

Tanqueray  had  hardly  introduced  them  before  he  was  called 
off  to  the  doctor.     He  must  leave  them,  he  said,  to  each  other. 

They  did  not  talk.  They  sat  in  an  odd,  intuitive  silence,  a 
silence  that  had  no  awkwardness  and  no  embarrassment.  It  was 
intimate,  rather,  and  vividly  revealing.  You  would  have  said, 
coming  upon  them  there,  that  they  had  agreed  upon  this  form 
of  communion  and  enjoyed  it. 

It  gave  her  leisure  in  which  to  take  him  more  securely  in. 
Her  gaze  was  obliquely  attentive  to  his  face,  rugged  and  battered 
by  travel,  sallow  now,  where  it  had  once  been  bronze.  She  saw 
that  his  soul  had  passed  through  strange  climates. 


THECEEATOES  195 

It  was  borne  in  on  her,  as  they  continued  in  their  silence,  that 
she  knew  something  about  him,  something  certain  and  terrible, 
something  that  must,  ultimately  and  inevitably,  happen  to  him. 
She  caught  herself  secretly  defining  it.  Tuberculosis  —  that 
was  it ;  that  was  the  certain  and  inevitable  thing.  Of  course ; 
anybody  would  have  seen  it.  That  she  had  not  seen  it  at  the 
first  glance  she  attributed  to  the  enchantment  of  his  personality 
that  held  her  from  any  immediate  consideration  of  his  singular 
physique.  If  it  were  not,  indeed,  his  own  magnificent  oblivion. 
When  she  looked,  she  could  see  how  lean  he  was,  how  insuffi- 
ciently nourished.  His  clothes  hung  on  him  in  folds ;  they  were 
worn  to  an  incredible  shabbiness.  Yet  he  carried  them  with  an 
indomitable  distinction.  He  had  the  grace,  in  flank  and  limb, 
of  the  wild  thing  made  swift  by  hunger. 

Her  seeing  all  this  now  made  their  silence  unendurable.  It 
also  suggested  the  thing  she  at  last  said. 

"  I  'm  distressed  about  Mrs.  Tanqueray.  I  hope  it 's  nothing 
serious." 

Prothero's  face  was  serious;  more  serious  by  far  than  Tan- 
queray's  had  been. 

"  Too  much  contemplation,"  he  said,  "  is  bad  for  her.  She 
is  n't  cut  out  for  a  contemplative,  though  she  's  in  a  fair  way 
of  becoming  a  saint  and " 

She  filled  his  blank,  "  And  a  martyr  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  expect  when  a  man  mates  like  that  ?  " 

"  It 's  natural,"  she  pleaded. 

"  Natural  ?  It 's  one  of  the  most  unnatural  marriages  I  've 
ever  come  across.  It 's  a  crime  against  nature  for  a  man  like 
Tanqueray  to  have  taken  that  poor  little  woman  —  who  is  na- 
ture pure  and  simple  —  and  condemn  her  to " 

She  drew  back  visibly.  "  I  know.  He  does  n't  see  it,"  she 
said. 

"  He  does  n't  see  anything.  He  does  n't  even  know  she 's 
there.  How  can  he?  His  genius  runs  to  flesh  and  blood,  and 
he  has  n't  room  for  any  more  of  it  outside  his  own  imagination. 
That 's  where  you  are  with  your  great  realists." 


196  THECEEATORS 

She  gazed  at  him,  astonished,  admiring.  This  visionary,  this 
poet  so  estranged  from  flesh  and  blood,  had  put  his  finger  on 
the  fact. 

"  You  mean,"  she  said,  "  a  visionary  would  see  more  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  her  reference. 

"  He  would  have  more  room,"  he  said,  "  that  would  be  all. 
He  could  at  any  rate  afford  to  take  more  risks." 

They  were  silent  again. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said  presently,  "  somebody  's  coming.  I  shall 
have  to  go." 

Jane  turned  her  head.  The  sounds  he  heard  so  distinctly 
were  inaudible  to  her. 

They  proved  to  be  footsteps  on  the  staircase,  footsteps  that 
could  never  have  been  Eose's  nor  yet  Tanqueray's.  They  paused 
heavily  at  the  door.     Some  one  was  standing  there,  breathing. 

A  large  woman  entered  very  slowly,  and  Jane  arrived,  also 
slowly,  at  the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  Mrs.  Eldred,  George's 
wife's  aunt. 

Mrs.  Eldred  acknowledged  her  presence  and  Prothero's  by  a 
vague  movement  of  respect.  It  was  not  till  Prothero  had  gone 
that  she  admitted  that  she  would  be  glad  to  take  a  chair.  She 
explained  that  she  was  Eose's  aunt,  and  that  she  had  never  been 
up  them  stairs  before  and  found  them  tryin'. 

Jane  expressed  sorrow  for  that  fact  and  for  Eose's  illness. 

Mrs.  Eldred  sighed  an  expository  sigh. 

"  She  's  frettin'  an'  she  's  worritin'.  She  's  worritin'  about 
'Im.  It  is  n't  natch'ral,  that  life  'E  leads,  and  it 's  tellin' 
on  'er." 

"  Something  's  telling  on  her," 

Mrs.  Eldred  leaned  forward  and  lowered  her  voice.  "  It 's 
this  way,  miss.     'E  is  n't  properly  a  'usban'  to  'er." 

"  You  should  n't  say  that,  Mrs.  Eldred.  He  's  verv  fond  of 
her." 

"  Fond  of  'er  I  dare  say  'E  may  be.     But  'E  neglec's  'er." 

"You  shouldn't  say  that,  either." 

"Well,  miss,  I  can't  'elp  sayin'  it.     Wot  else  is  it,  when  'E 


THE     CREATORS  197 

shuts  'imself  up  with  'is  writin'  all  day  long  and  'alf  the  night, 
and  she  a-settin'  and  a-f  rettin'  ?  " 

She  looked  round  the  room,  apparently  recognizing  with 
resentment  the  scene  of  Tanqueray's  perpetual  infidelity. 

"  But,"  said  Jane,  "  he  'd  be  away  as  much  if  he  was  in 
business." 

"  'Ef  'E  was  in  business  there  'd  be  the  evenin's  to  look  for- 
ward to.  And  there  'd  be  'is  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  As  it  is, 
wot  is  there  for  her  to  look  forward  to  ?  " 

"  At  any  rate  she  knows  he  's  there." 

"  It 's  knowin'  that  'E  's  there  wot  does  it.  It 's  not  as  if 
she  'ad  a  'ouse  to  look  after,  or  a  little  baby  to  take  'er  mind 
orf  of  'im." 

«No,   it  isn't." 

A  sound  of  yapping  came  faintly  up  from  the  ground-floor, 

"That's  Joey,"  said  Mrs.  Eldred  tearfully,  " 'er  Pom  as 
she  was  so  fond  of.  I  've  brought  'im.  And  I  've  brought 
Minny  too." 

"Minny?"     Jane  had  not  heard  of   Minny. 

"  The  cat,  miss.  They  '11  keep  'er  company.  It 's  but  right 
as  she  should  'ave  them." 

Jane  assented  warmly  that  it  was  but  right. 

"  It 's  not,"  Mrs.  Eldred  continued,  "  as  if  she  came  reg'lar, 
say  once  in  a  week,  to  see  'er  uncle  and  me.  She  '11  go  to 
Camden  Town  and  set  with  that  poor  old  Mr.  Gunning.  Give 
Eose  any  one  that 's  ill.  But  wot  is  that  hut  settin'  ?  And 
now,  you  see,  with  settin'  she  's  ill.  It 's  all  very  well  when 
you  're  brought  up  to  it,  but  she  is  n't.  Rose  'd  be  well  if  she 
'ad  a  'ouse  and  did  the  work  in  it.  And  'E  won't  let  'er  'ave 
it.     'E  won't  'ear  of  'er  workin',  'E  says." 

"  Well,  naturally,  he  would  n't  like  to  see  his  wife  working." 

"  Then,  miss,  'E  should  'ave  married  a  lady  'as  would  n't 
want  to  work.  That 's  wot  'E  should  have  done.  "We  were 
always  against  it  from  the  first,  'er  uncle  and  me  was.  But 
they  was  set,  bein'  young-like." 

Mrs.  Eldred's  voice  ceased  suddenly  as  Tanqueray  entered. 


198  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S 

Jane  abstained  from  all  observation  of  their  greeting.  She 
was  aware  of  an  unnatural  suavity  in  Tanqueray's  manner.  He 
carried  it  so  far  as  to  escort  Mrs.  Eldred  all  the  way  down  to 
the  ground-floor  sitting-room  where  Eose  was. 

He  returned  with  considerable  impetus  to  Jane, 

"  Well,  Jinny,  so  you  've  seen  my  aunt-in-law  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  said  Jinny  contumaciously,  "  and  I  like  her," 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  She  's  brought  a  dog  on  a  chain  and 
a  beast  of  a  cat  in  a  basket." 

Jinny  abstained  from  sympathy,  and  Tanqueray  grew  grave, 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  Eose,"  he  said, 
"  She  does  n't  seem  to  get  much  better.  The  doctor  swears  it 's 
only  liver;  but  he  's  a  silly  ass," 

"  Tanks,  there  's  nothing  the  matter  really,  except  • —  the 
poor  little  bird  wants  to  build  its  nest.  It  wants  sticks  and 
straws  and  feathers  and  things " 

"  Do  you  mean  I  've  got  to  go  and  find  a  beastly  house  ?  " 

"  Let  her  go  and  find  it." 

"  I  would  in  a  minute  —  only  I  'm  so  hard  up." 

"  Of  course  you  '11  be  hard  up  if  you  go  on  living  in  rooms 
like  this." 

"  That 's  what  she  says.  But  when  she  talks  about  a  house 
she  means  that  she  '11  do  all  the  work  in  it," 

"  Wliy  not  ?  "  said  Jane. 

"Why  not?  I  married  her  because  I  wasn't  going  to  have 
her  worked  to  death  in  that  damned  lodging-house  of  her 
uncle's." 

"  You  married  her  because  you  loved  her,"  said  Jane  quietly. 

"  Well  —  of  course.  And  I  'm  not  going  to  let  my  wife  cook 
my  dinner  and  make  my  bed  and  empty  my  slops.  How 
can  I?" 

"  She  '11  die  if  you  don't,  George," 

"Die?" 

"  She  '11  get  horribly  ill.  She 's  ill  now  because  she  can't 
run  about  and  sweep  and  dust  and  cook  dinners.  She  's  dying 
for  love  of  all  the  beautiful  things  you  won't  let  her  have  — 


THECREATOES  199 

pots  and  pans  and  carpet-sweepers  and  besoms.     You  don't  want 
her  to  die  of  an  unhappy  passion  for  a  besom  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  her  with  a  besom." 

Jane  pleaded.  "She'd  look  so  pretty  with  it,  George.  Just 
think  how  pretty  she  'd  look  in  a  little  house,  playing  with  a 
carpet-sweeper." 

"  On  her  knees,  scrubbing  the  kitchen  floor " 

"  You  'd  have  a  woman  in  to  scrub." 

"Carrying  the  coals?" 

"  You  'd  carry  the  coals,  George." 

"  By  Jove,  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  suppose  I  could."  He 
pondered. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  she  wants  to  live  at  Hampstead." 

"  You  can't  cut  her  off  from  her  own  people." 

"  I  'm  not  cutting  her  off.     She  goes  to  see  them." 

"  She  '11  go  to  see  them  if  you  live  at  Hampstead.  If  you 
live  here  they  '11  come  and  see  you.  For  she  '11  be  ill  and  they  '11 
have  to." 

Tanqueray  looked  at  her,  not  without  admiration. 

"  Jinny,  you  're  ten  times  cleverer  than  I." 

"  In  some  things.  Tanks,  I  am.  And  so  is  that  wife  of 
yours." 

"  She 's  —  very  sensible.  I  suppose  it 's  sensible  to  be  in 
love  with  a  carpet-sweeper." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"  Much  more  sensible  than  being  in  love  with  you." 

His  eyes  evaded  her.     She  rose. 

"  Oh,  Tanks,  you  goose.  Can't  you  see  that  it 's  you  she  's 
in  love  with  —  and  that 's  why  she  must  have  a  carpet-sweeper  ?  " 

With  that  she  left  him. 

He  followed  her  to  the  doorstep  where  he  turned  abruptly 
from  her  departure. 

Rose  in  the  sitting-room  was  kneeling  by  the  hearth  where 
she  had  just  set  a  saucer  of  milk.  With  one  hand  she  was 
loosening  very  gently  from  her  shoulder  the  claws  of  Minny 
the  cat,  who  clung  to  her  breast,  scrambling,  with  the  passion 


200  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

and  desperation  of  his  kind.  Her  other  hand  restrained  with 
a  soft  caressing  movement  Joey's  approaches  to  the  saucer. 
Joey,  though  trembling  with  excitement,  sat  fascinated,  obedient 
to  her  gesture.  Joey  was  puny  and  hairless  as  ever,  but  in 
Eose's  face  as  she  looked  at  him  there  was  a  flush  of  maternal 
tenderness  and  gravity.  A  slightly  sallow  tinge  under  its  sud- 
den bloom  told  how  Eose  had  suffered  from  the  sendentary  life. 

All  this  Tanqueray  saw  as  he  entered.  It  held  him  on  the 
threshold,  unmoved  by  the  rushing  assault  and  lacerating  bark 
of  the  little  dog,  who  resented  his  intrusion. 

Eose  got  up  and  came  to  him,  lifting  a  frightened,  pleading 
face. 

"  Oh,  George,"  she  said,  "  don't  make  me  send  them  away. 
Let  me  keep  them." 

"  I  suppose  you  must  keep  them  if  you  want  them." 

"  I  never  said  I  wanted  them.  Aunt  would  bring  them. 
She  thought  they  'd  be  something  to  occupy  my  mind,  like." 

Tanqueray  smiled,  in  spite  of  his  gentleness,  at  the  absurd 
idea  of  Eose  having  a  mind. 

Eose  made  a  little  sound  in  her  throat  like  a  laugh.  She 
had  not  laughed,  she  had  hardly  smiled,  for  many  months 
now. 

"  The  doctor  — 'e  's  fair  pleased.  'E  says  I  '11  ''ave  to  go  out 
walkin'  now,  for  Joey's  sake." 

"  Poor  Joey." 

He  stooped  and  stroked  the  little  animal,  who  stood  on  ridic- 
ulous hind-legs,  straining  to  lick  his  hand. 

"  His  hair  does  n't  come  on,  Eose " 

"  It  has  n't  been  brushed  proper.  You  should  brush  a  Pom's 
'air  backwards " 

"  Of  course,  and  it  has  n't  been  brushed  backwards.  He  can 
bark  all  right,  anyhow.     There  's  nothing  wrong  with  his  lungs." 

"  He  won't  bark  at  you  no  more,  now  he  knows  you." 

She  leaned  her  face  to  the  furry  head  on  her  shoulder,  and 
he  recognized  Minny  by  the  strange  pattern  of  his  back  and 
tail.     Minny  was  not  beautiful. 

"It's  Minny,"  she  said.     "You  used  to  like  Minny." 


THE     CREATORS  201 

It  struck  him  with  something  like  a  pang  that  she  held  him 
like  a  child  at  her  breast.  She  saw  his  look  and  smiled  up 
at  him. 

"  I  may  keep  him,  too  ?  " 

At  that  he  kissed  her. 

By  the  end  of  that  evening  Tanqueray  had  not  written  a 
word.  He  could  only  turn  over  the  pages  of  his  manuscript, 
in  wonder  at  the  mechanical  industry  that  had  covered  so  much 
paper  with  such  awful  quantities  of  ink.  Here  and  there  he 
recognized  a  phrase,  and  then  he  was  aware,  very  miserably 
aware,  that  the  thing  was  his  masterpiece.  He  wondered,  and 
with  agony,  how  on  earth  he  was  going  to  finish  it  if  they  came 
about  him  like  this  and  destroyed  his  peace. 

It  was  n't  the  idea  of  the  house.  The  house  was  bad  enough ; 
the  house  indeed  was  abominable.  It  was  Rose,  It  was  more 
than  Rose;  it  was  everything;  it  was  the  touch,  the  intimate, 
unendurable  strain  and  pressure  of  life. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Prothero  to  talk.  His  genius  was 
safe,  it  was  indestructible.  It  had  the  immunity  of  the  tran- 
scendent. It  worked,  not  in  flesh  and  blood,  but  in  a  divine 
material.  Whatever  Prothero  did  it  remained  unmoved,  un- 
troubled by  the  impact  of  mortality.  Prothero  could  afford  his 
descents,  his  immersions  in  the  stuff  of  life.  He,  Tanqueray, 
could  not,  for  life  was  the  stuff  he  worked  in.  To  immerse  him- 
self was  suicidal ;  it  was  the  dyer  plunging  into  his  own  vat. 

Because  his  genius  was  a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood,  flesh  and 
blood  was  the  danger  always  at  its  threshold,  the  enemy  in  its 
house.  For  the  same  reason  it  was  sufficient  to  itself.  It  ful- 
filled the  functions,  it  enjoyed  the  excitements  and  the  satisfac- 
tions of  sense.  It  reproduced  reality  so  infallibly,  so  solidly, 
so  completely,  that  it  took  reality's  place;  it  made  him  uncon- 
scious of  his  wife's  existence  and  of  the  things  that  went  on 
beneath  him  in  the  ground-floor  sitting-room. 

Yet  he  was  not  and  had  never  been  indifferent  to  life  itself. 

He  approached  it,  not  with  precaution  or  prejudice  or  any  cold 

discretion,  but  with  the  supreme  restraint  of  passion  on  guard 

against  its  own  violence.     If  he  had  given  himself  to  it,  what 

13 


302  THECREATOES 

a  grip  it  would  have  had  on  him,  what  a  terrible,  destructive 
grip;  if,  say,  he  had  found  his  mate;  if  he  had  married  a 
woman,  who,  exulting  in  life,  would  have  drawn  him  into  it. 

Eose  had  not  drawn  him  in.  She  had  done  nothing  assailing 
and  destructive.  She  was,  in  some  respects,  the  most  admirable 
wife  a  man  bent  on  solitude  could  have  selected.  The  little 
thing  had  never  got  in  his  way.  She  was  no  longer  disturbing  to 
the  intellect,  nor  agitating  to  the  heart;  and  she  satisfied,  suf- 
ficiently, the  infrequent  craving  of  his  senses.  Up  till  now  he 
would  hardly  have  known  that  he  was  married;  it  had  been  so 
easy  to  ignore  her. 

But  to-day  she  had  been  forced  on  his  attention.  The  truth 
about  Eose  had  been  presented  to  him  very  plainly  and  boldly 
by  Prothero,  by  the  doctor,  by  Mrs.  Eldred  and  by  Jane.  It 
was  the  same  naked  truth  that  in  his  novels  he  himself  pre- 
sented with  the  utmost  plainness  and  boldness  to  the  British 
public.  His  genius  knew  no  other  law  but  truth  to  Nature, 
trust  in  Nature,  unbroken  fidelity  to  Nature.  And  now  it  was 
Nature  that  arraigned  his  genius  for  its  frustration  of  her  pur- 
poses in  Eose.  His  genius  had  made  Eose  the  victim  of  its  own 
incessant,   inextinguishable  lust  and  impulse  to  create. 

Eleven  o'clock  struck  and  he  had  not  written  a  line.  Through 
his  window  he  heard  the  front  door  open  and  Eose's  little  feet 
on  the  pavement,  and  Eose's  voice  calling  into  the  darkness 
her  old  call,  "Puss  —  Puss  —  Puss.  Minny  —  Min  —  Min  — 
Minny.     Puss  —  Puss  —  Puss." 

He  sighed.  He  had  realized  for  the  first  time  that  he  was 
married. 


XXIV 

NINA  kept  her  promise,  although  Prothero  protested  that 
he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  be  taken  to  see  Laura 
Gunning.  He  was  told  that  he  need  not  be  afraid  of  Laura. 
She  was  too  small,  Nina  said,  to  do  him  any  harm.  Eefusing 
to  go  and  see  Laura  was  like  refusing  to  go  and  see  a  sick  child. 
Ultimately,  with  extreme  unwillingness,  he  consented. 

Laura  was  the  poorest  of  them  all,  and  she  lived  on  a  top- 
floor  in  Albert  Street,  Camden  Town,  under  desperate  restric- 
tions of  time  and  space.  For  she  had  a  family,  and  the  pe- 
culiarity and  the  awkwardness  of  Laura's  family  was  that  it  was 
always  there.     She  spoke  of  it  briefly  as  Papa. 

It  was  four  years  now  since  Mr.  Gunning's  sunstroke  and  his 
bankruptcy;  for  four  years  his  mind  had  been  giving  way,  very 
slowly  and  softly,  and  now  he  was  living,  without  knowing  it, 
on  what  Laura  wrote.  Nobody  but  Laura  knew  what  heavy  odds 
she  fought  against,  struggling  to  bring  her  diminutive  talent  to 
perfection.  Poverty  was  always  putting  temptation  in  her  way. 
She  knew  that  she  had  chosen  the  most  expensive  and  the  least 
remunerative  form  of  her  delightful  art.  She  knew  that  there 
were  things  she  could  do,  concessions  she  could  make,  sacrifices, 
a  thousand  facile  extensions  of  the  limit,  a  thousand  imponder- 
able infidelities  to  the  perfection  she  adored.  But  they  were 
sins,  and  though  poverty  pinched  her  for  it,  she  had  never 
committed  one  of  them. 

And  yet  Laura  was  cruel  to  her  small  genius.  It  was  deli- 
cate, and  she  drove  it  with  all  the  strength  of  her  hard,  indom- 
itable will.  She  would  turn  it  on  to  any  rough  journalistic 
work  that  came  to  her  hand.  It  had  not  yet  lost  its  beauty 
and  its  freshness.  But  it  was  threatened.  They  were  begin- 
ning, Nina  said,  to  wonder  how  long  Laura  would  hold  out. 

It  was  not  Poverty  that  had  wrecked  her.     She  could  bear 

203 


204  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S 

that.  Poverty  had  been  good  to  her;  it  had  put  her  woman's 
talent  to  the  test,  justifying  its  existence,  proving  it  a  market- 
able thing.  She  rejoiced  in  her  benign  adversity,  and  woman- 
like, she  hated  herself  for  rejoicing.  For  there  was  always  the 
thought  that  if  she  had  not  been  cursed,  as  to  her  talent,  with 
this  perverse  instinct  for  perfection,  Papa  would  not  have  had 
to  live,  as  he  did  live,  miserably,  on  a  top-floor  in  Camden 
Town. 

It  was  May  and  the  keen  light  raked  her  room,  laying  its 
bareness  still  more  bare.  It  was  furnished,  Laura's  room,  with 
an  extreme  austerity.  There  was  a  little  square  of  blue  drugget 
under  the  deal  table  that  stood  against  the  wall,  and  one  green 
serge  curtain  at  each  window.  There  was  a  cupboard  and  an 
easy-chair  for  Mr.  Gunning  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace  next  the 
window.  On  the  other,  the  dark  side,  was  Laura's  writing- 
table,  with  a  book-shelf  above  it.  Another  book-shelf  faced  the 
fireplace.     That  was  all. 

Here,  for  three  years,  Laura  had  worked,  hardly  ever  alone, 
and  hardly  ever  in  silence,  except  when  the  old  man  dozed  in 
the  easy-chair. 

Some  rooms,  however  disguised  by  their  furniture,  have  a 
haunted  air,  an  atmosphere  of  spiritual  joy  or  tragedy,  nobility 
or  holiness,  or  spiritual  squalor.  Ghostly  fragments,  torn  por- 
tions of  the  manifold  self,  are  lodged  there;  they  drift  for  ever 
and  ever  between  the  four  walls  of  the  room  and  penetrate  and 
torment  you  with  its  secret.  Prothero,  coming  into  Laura's 
room,  was  smitten  and  pierced  with  a  sense  of  mortal  pathos, 
a  small  and  lonely  pathos,  holding  itself  aloof,  drifting  about 
him,  a  poor  broken  ghost,  too  proud  to  approach  him  or  to  cling. 

Laura  was  at  home.  She  was  writing,  snatching  at  the  few 
golden  moments  of  her  day,  while  apart  from  and  unaware  of 
her,  sunken  in  his  seat,  the  old  man  dozed  by  the  fireside.  From 
time  to  time  she  glanced  at  him,  and  then  her  face  set  under 
its  tenderness,  as  if  it  fronted,  unflinching,  an  immovable,  per- 
petual fear. 

Prothero,  as  he  crossed  her  threshold,  had  taken  in  the  un- 
happy, childlike  figure,  and  that  other  figure,  sunken  in  its  seat, 


THE     CREATORS  205 

slumbering,  inert,  the  image  of  decay.  He  stood  still  for  a  mo- 
ment before  Laura,  as  a  man  stands  when  he  is  struck  with 
wonder. 

He  took  without  speaking  the  hand,  the  ridiculously  small, 
thin  hand  she  gave  him,  touching  it  as  if  he  were  afraid  lest 
he  might  hurt  the  fragile  thing. 

He  knew  what  Nina  had  meant  when  she  said  that  he  need 
not  be  afraid  of  her,  that  she  could  n't  do  him  any  harm. 

He  saw  a  mere  slender  slip  of  a  body,  a  virginal  body,  straight- 
clad  ;  the  body  and  the  face  of  a  white  child.  Her  almost  rudi- 
mentary features  cast  no  shade;  her  lips  had  kept  the  soft,  low 
curve  of  their  childhood,  their  colourless  curl  flattened  against 
her  still,  white  face.  He  saw  all  that,  and  he  saw  the  sleeping 
tenderness  in  her  eyes;  deep-down  it  slept,  under  dark  blue 
veils.  Her  eyes  made  him  forgive  her  forehead,  the  only  thing 
about  her  which  was  not  absurdly  small. 

And  of  all  this  he  was  afraid,  afraid  for  the  wonder  and 
mystery  it  evoked  in  him.  He  saw  that  Nina  watched  him  and 
that  she  was  aware  of  his  fear. 

She  was  dangerously,  uncontrollably  aware  of  it,  and  aware 
of  her  own  folly  in  bringing  him  to  Laura  against  his  judgment 
and  his  will.  She  might  have  known  that  for  him  there  would 
be  a  charm,  a  perfection  in  her  very  immaturity,  that  she  would 
have  for  him  all  the  appealing,  pathetic  beauty  of  her  type. 
For  him,  Nina,  watching  with  a  fierce  concentration,  saw  that 
she  was  virginity  reduced  to  its  last  and  most  exquisite  sim- 
plicity. 

They  had  said  nothing  to  each  other.  Laura,  in  the  won- 
derful hour  of  his  coming,  could  find  nothing  to  say  to  him. 
He  noticed  that  she  and  Nina  talked  in  low,  rapid  voices, 
as  if  they  feared  that  at  any  moment  the  old  man  might  awake. 

Then  Laura  arose  and  began  to  get  tea  ready,  moving  very 
softly  in  her  fear. 

"  You  'd  better  let  me  cut  the  bread  and  butter,"  said  Prothero. 

Laura  let  him. 

Nina  heard  them  talking  over  the  bread  and  butter  while 
Laura  made  the  tea.     She  saw  that  his  eves  did  not  follow  her 


206  THECREATOES 

about  the  room,  but  that  they  rested  on  her  when  she  was 
not  looking. 

"  You  were  hard  at  work  when  we  came/'  he  was  saying. 

Laura  denied  it. 

"  If  I  may  say  so,  you  look  as  if  you  'd  been  at  it  far  too 
long." 

"  No.  I  'm  never  at  it  long  enough.  The  bother  is  getting 
back  to  where  you  were  half-an-hour  ago.  It  seems  to  take  up 
most  of  the  time.'' 

"  Then  I  ought  n't  —  ought  I  —  to  take  up  any  of  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please,"  said  Laura,  "  take  it.  /  can't  do  anytliing 
with  it." 

She  had  the  air  of  offering  it  to  him  like  bread  and  butter 
on  a  plate. 

"  Time,"  she  said,  "  is  about  all  we  've  got  here.  At  any 
rate  there  will  be  time  for  tea."  She  examined  the  cupboard. 
"  It  looks  as  if  time  were  about  all  we  were  going  to  have  for 
tea."  She  explored  the  ultimate  depth  of  the  cupboard.  "  I 
wonder  if  I  could  find  some  jam.     Do  you  like  jam  ?  " 

"I  adore  it." 

That  was  all  they  said. 

"  N"eed  you,"  said  Nina  to  Prothero,  "  spread  the  butter  quite 
so  thick  ? "  Even  in  her  agony  she  wondered  how  much,  at 
the  rate  he  was  spreading  it,  would  be  left  for  the  Kiddy's 
supper. 

"  He  shall  spread  it,"  said  the  Kiddy  superbly,  "  as  thick  as 
ever  he  likes." 

They  called  Nina  to  the  table.  She  ate  and  drank;  but 
Laura's  tea  scalded  her;  Laura's  bread  and  butter  choked  her; 
she  sickened  at  it;  and  when  she  tried  to  talk  her  voice  went 
dry  in  her  throat. 

And  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  the  old  man  dropped  from 
torpor  to  torpor,  apart  and  unaware  of  them.  When  he  waked 
they  would  have  to  go. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Laura,  "I'd  better  wake  Papa?" 

That  was  a  question  which  this  decided  little  person  had 
never  been  able  to  decide  for  herself.     It  was  too  momentous. 


THECREATOES  307 

"  No,"  said  Nina,  "  I  think  you  'd  better  not." 

It  was  then  that  Mr.  Gunning  waked  himself,  violently; 
starting  and  staring,  his  pale  eyes  round  with  terror;  for  his 
sunstroke  had  made  him  dream  dreams. 

Laura  gave  an  inarticulate  murmur  of  compassion.  She 
knelt  by  him,  and  held  his  hands  in  hers  and  stroked  them. 

"  What  is  it,  Papa  dear,  have  you  had  a  little  dream  ?  Poor 
darling,"  she  said,  "  he  has  such  horrid  ones." 

Mr.  Gunning  looked  about  him,  still  alarmed,  still  surrounded 
as  in  his  dream,  by  appalling  presences.  He  was  a  little  man, 
with  a  weak,  handsome  face,  worn  and  dragged  by  emotion. 

"AVhat's  all  this?  What's  all  this?"  he  reiterated,  until 
out  of  the  throng  of  presences  he  distinguished  dimly  a  woman's 
form.     He  smiled  at  it.     He  was  almost  wide  awake  now. 

"Is  it  Eose?"  he  said. 

"  No,  Papa.     It 's  Nina." 

Mr.  Gunning  became  dejected.  If  it  had  been  Eose  she  would 
have  sat  beside  him  and  talked  to  him  a  little  while. 

He  was  perfectly  wide  awake  now ;  he  had  seen  Prothero ; 
and  the  sight  of  Prothero  revived  in  him  his  one  idea.  His 
idea  was  that  every  man  who  saw  Laura  would  want  to  pick 
the  little  thing  up  and  carry  her  away  from  him.  He  was 
haunted  by  the  fear  of  losing  Laura.  He  had  lost  everything 
he  had  and  had  forgotten  it;  but  a  faint  memory  of  disaster 
persisted  in  his  idea. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  my  little  girl  ?  "  he  said. 
"  You  're  not  going  to  take  her  away  ?  I  won't  have  that.  I 
won't  have  that." 

"Isn't  he  funny?"  said  Laura,  unabashed.  And  from  where 
she  knelt,  there  on  the  verge  of  her  terror,  she  looked  up  at 
the  young  man  and  laughed.  She  laughed  lest  Prothero  should 
feel  uncomfortable. 

Nina  had  risen  for  departure,  and  with  a  slow,  reluctant 
movement  of  his  long  body,  Prothero  rose  too.  Nina  could  have 
sworn  that  almost  he  bowed  his  head  over  Laura's  hand. 

"May  I  come  and  see  you  again  some  day?"  he  said.  And 
she  said  she  would  be  very  glad. 


208  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

That  was  all. 

Outside  in  the  little  dull  street  he  turned  to  Nina. 

"  It  was  n't  fair,  Nina ;  you  did  n't  tell  me  I  was  going  to 
have  my  heart   wrung." 

"  How  could  I  know,"  she  said  fiercely,  "  what  would  wring 
your  heart  ?  " 

He  looked  away  lest  he  should  seem  to  see  what  was  in  her. 

But  she   knew  he  saw. 


XXV 

THREE  weeks  passed.  Prothero  had  been  four  times  to 
see  Miss  Gunning.  He  had  been  once  because  she  said 
he  might  come  again;  once  because  of  a  book  he  had  promised 
to  lend  her;  once  because  he  happened  to  be  passing;  and  once 
for  no  reason  whatsoever.  It  was  then  borne  in  on  him  that 
what  he  required  was  a  pretext.  Calling  late  one  evening  he 
caught  Miss  Gunning  in  the  incredible  double  act  of  flinging  off 
a  paragraph  for  the  papers  while  she  talked  to  Mr.  Gunning. 

His  pretext,  heaven-sent,  unmistakable,  stared  him  in  the  face. 
He  could  not  write  paragraphs  for  the  papers  (they  would  n't 
take  his  paragraphs),  but  he  could  talk  to  Mr.  Gunning.  It  was 
not  so  difficult  as  he  would  have  at  first  supposed.  He  had 
already  learnt  the  trick  of  it.  You  took  a  chair.  You  made  a 
statement.  Any  statement  would  do.  You  had  only  to  say  to 
Mr.  Gunning,  "Isn't  that  so?"  and  he  would  bow  and  assure 
you,  with  a  solemn  courtesy,  that  it  was,  and  sit  up  waiting  pa- 
tiently for  you  to  do  it  again;  and  you  went  on  talking  to 
Miss  Gunning  until  he  showed  signs  of  restlessness.  When  you 
had  done  this  several  times  running  he  would  sink  back  in  his 
chair  appeased.  But  Prothero  had  discovered  that  if  you  con- 
centrated your  attention  on  Mr.  Gunning,  if  you  exposed  him 
to  a  steady  stream  of  statements,  he  invariably  went  to  sleep; 
and  while  he  slept  Laura  wrote. 

And  while  Laura  wrote,  Owen  could  keep  on  looking  at  her 
as  much  as  he  liked. 

From  where  he  sat  his  half-closed  eyes  could  take  in  rather 
more  than  a  side  view  of  Laura.  He  could  see  her  head  as  it 
bent  and  turned  over  her  work,  showing,  now  the  two  low  waves 
of  its  dark  hair,  now  the  flat  coils  at  the  back  that  took  the 
beautiful  curve  of  Laura's  head.     From  time  to  time  she  would 

209 


210  THECEEATOES 

look  up  at  him  and  smile,  and  he  would  smile  back  again  under 
his  eyelids  with  a  faint  quiver  of  his  moustache. 

And  Laura  said  to  herself,  "He  is  rather  ugly,  but  I  like 
him." 

It  was  not  odd  that  she  should  like  him;  but  what  struck 
her  as  amazing  was  the  peace  that  in  his  presence  settled  on 
Papa.  Once  he  had  got  over  the  first  shock  of  his  appearance, 
it  soothed  Mr.  Gunning  to  see  Prothero  sitting  there,  smoking, 
his  long  legs  stretched  out,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  half 
closed.  It  established  him  in  the  illusion  of  continued  opu- 
lence, for  Mr.  Gunning  was  not  aware  of  the  things  that  had 
happened  to  him  four  years  ago.  But  there  had  been  lapses 
and  vanishings,  unaccountable  disturbances  of  the  illusion.  In 
the  days  of  opulence  people  had  come  to  see  him ;  now  they  only 
came  to  see  Laura.  They  were  always  the  same  people,  Miss 
Holland  and  Miss  Lempriere  and  Mr.  Tanqueray.  They  did 
no  positive  violence  to  the  illusion;  in  their  way  they  minis- 
tered to  it.  They  took  their  place  among  the  company  of  bril- 
liant and  indifferent  strangers  whom  he  had  once  entertained 
with  cold  ceremony  and  a  high  and  distant  courtesy.  They 
stayed  for  a  short  time  by  his  chair,  they  drifted  from  it  into 
remote  corners  of  the  room,  they  existed  only  for  each  other  and 
for  Laura.  Thus  one  half  of  his  dream  remained  incom- 
prehensible to  Mr.  Gunning.  He  did  not  really  know  these 
people. 

But  he  knew  Mr,  Prothero,  who  took  a  chair  beside  him  and 
stayed  an  hour  and  smoked  a  pipe  with  him.  He  had  known 
him  intimately  and  for  a  long  time.  His  figure  filled  the  dark 
and  empty  places  in  the  illusion,  and  made  it  warm,  tangible  and 
complete.  And  because  the  vanished  smokers,  the  comrades  of 
the  days  of  opulence,  had  paid  hardly  any  attention  to  Laura, 
therefore  Mr.  Gunning's  mind  ceased  to  connect  Prothero  with 
his  formidable  idea. 

Laura,  who  had  once  laughed  at  it,  was  growing  curiously 
sensitive  to  the  idea.  She  waited  for  it  in  dreadful  pauses  of 
the  conversation ;  she  sat  shivering  with  the  expectation  of  its 
coming.     Sooner  or  later  it  would  come,  and  when  it  did  come 


THE     CREATORS  211 

Papa  would  ask  Mr.  Prothero  his  intentions,  and  Mr.  Prothero, 
having  of  course  no  intentions,  would  go  away  and  never  have 
anything  to  do  with  them  again. 

Prothero  had  not  yet  asked  himself  his  intentions  or  even 
wondered  what  he  was  there  for,  since,  as  it  seemed,  it  was  not 
to  talk  to  Laura.  There  had  been  opportunities,  moments, 
pauses  in  the  endless  procession  of  paragraphs,  when  he  had 
tried  to  draw  Laura  out;  but  Laura  was  not  to  be  drawn.  She 
had  a  perfect  genius  for  retreating,  vanishing  from  him  back- 
wards, keeping  her  innocent  face  towards  him  all  the  time,  but 
backing,  backing  into  her  beloved  obscurity.  He  felt  that  there 
were  things  behind  her  that  forbade  him  to  pursue. 

Of  the  enchantment  that  had  drawn  her  in  the  beginning, 
she  had  not  said  a  word.  When  it  came  to  that  they  were  both 
silent,  as  by  a  secret  understanding  and  consent.  They  were 
both  aware  of  his  genius  as  a  thing  that  was  and  was  not  his, 
a  thing  perpetually  present  with  them  but  incommunicable,  the 
very  heart  of  their  silence. 

One  evening,  calling  about  nine  o'clock,  he  found  her  alone. 
She  told  him  that  Papa  was  very  tired  and  had  gone  to  bed. 
"  It  is  very  good  of  you,"  she  said,  "  to  come  and  sit  with 
him." 

Prothero  smiled  quietly.     "  May  I  sit  with  you  now  ?  " 

"Please  do." 

They  sat  by  the  fireside,  for  even  in  mid-June  the  night  was 
chilly.  A  few  scattered  ashes  showed  at  the  lowest  bar  of  the 
grate.  Laura  had  raked  out  the  fire  that  had  been  lit  to  warm 
her  father. 

Papa,  she  explained,  was  not  always  as  Mr.  Prothero  saw  him 
now.     His  illness  came  from  a  sunstroke. 

He  said,  yes;  he  had  seen  cases  like  that  in  India. 

"  Then,  do  you  think " 

She  paused,  lest  she  should  seem  to  be  asking  for  a  profes- 
sional opinion. 

"  Do  I  think  ?     What  do  I  think  ?  " 

"  That  he  '11  get  better  ?  " 

He  was  silent  a  long  time. 


213  THE     CEEATOES 

"  No/'  he  said.  "  But  he  need  never  be  any  worse.  You 
must  n't  be  afraid." 

"  I  am  afraid.     I  'm  afraid  all  the  time." 

"What  of?" 

"  Of  some  awful  thing  happening  and  of  my  not  having  the 
nerve  to  face  it." 

"  You  've  nerve  enough  for  anything." 

"  You  don't  know  me.  I  'm  an  utter  coward.  I  can't  face 
things.     Especially  the  thing  I  'm  afraid  of." 

"  Wliat  is  it?  Tell  me."  He  leaned  nearer  to  her,  and  she 
almost  whispered. 

"I'm  afraid  of  his  having  a  fit  —  epilepsy.  He  might  have 
it." 

"  He  might.     But  he  won't.     You  must  n't  think  of  it." 

"  I  'm  always  thinking  of  it.  And  the  most  —  the  most  aw- 
ful thing  is  that  —  I  'm  afraid  of  seeing  it." 

She  bowed  her  head  and  looked  away  from  him  as  if  she  had 
confessed  to  an  unpardonable  shame. 

"  Poor  child.  Of  course  you  are,"  said  Prothero.  "  We  're 
all  afraid  of  something.  I  'm  afraid,  if  you  '11  believe  it,  of  the 
sight  of  blood." 

"  You  ?  " 

((  T  JJ 

"  Oh  —  but  you  would  n't  lose  your  head  and  run  away  from 
it." 

"Wouldn't  I?" 

"  No.  Or  you  could  n't  go  and  be  a  doctor.  Why,"  she 
asked  suddenly,  "  did  you  ?  " 

""  Because  I  was  afraid  of  the  sight  of  blood.  You  see,  it  was 
this  way.  My  father  was  a  country  doctor  —  a  surgeon.  One 
day  he  sent  me  into  his  surgery.  The  butcher  had  been  thrown 
out  of  his  cart  and  had  his  cheek  cut  open.  My  father  was 
sewing  it  up,  and  he  wanted  me  —  I  was  a  boy  about  fifteen  at 
the  time  —  to  stand  by  with  lumps  of  cotton-wool  and  mop  the 
butcher  while  he  sewed  him  up.     What  do  you  suppose  I  did?" 

"You  fainted?  —  You  were  ill  on  the  spot?" 

"  No.     I  was  n't  on  the  spot  at  all.     I  ran  away." 


THE     CEEATORS  213 

A  slight  tremor  passed  over  the  whiteness  of  her  face ;  he  took 
it  for  the  vibration  of  some  spiritual  recoil. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  anything." 

"  My  father  said  I  was  a  damned  coward,  and  my  mother  said 
I  was  a  hypocrite.  I  'd  been  reading  the  Book  of  Job,  you  see, 
when  it  happened." 

"  They  might  have  known,"  she  said. 

"  They  might  have  known  what  ?  " 

"  That  you  were  different." 

"  They  did  know  it.  After  that,  they  never  let  it  alone. 
They  kept  rubbing  it  into  me  all  the  time  that  I  was  different. 
As  my  father  put  it,  I  wore  my  cerebro-spinal  system  on  the 
outside,  and  I  had  to  grow  a  skin  or  two  if  I  wanted  to  be  a 
man  and  not  an  anatomical  diagram.  I  'd  got  to  prove  that  I 
was  a  man  —  that  I  was  n't  different  after  all." 

"  Well  —  you  proved  it." 

"  If  I  did  my  father  never  knew  it." 

"  And  your  mother  ?  "  she  said  softly. 

"  I  believe  she  knew." 

"  But  was  n't  she  glad  to  know  you  were  different  ?  " 

"  I  never  let  her  know,  really,  how  different  I  was." 

"You  kept  it  to  yourself?" 

"  It  was  the  only  way  to  keep  it." 

"  Your  genius  ?  " 

"  If  you  choose  to  call  it  that." 

"  The  thing,"  she  said,  "  that  made  you  different." 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "they  didn't  understand  that  that  was 
where  I  was  most  a  coward.  I  was  always  afraid  of  losing  it. 
I  am  now." 

"  You  could  n't  lose  it." 

"  I  have  lost  it.  It  went  altogether  the  time  I  was  working 
for  my  medical.  I  got  it  back  again  out  in  India  when  I  was 
alone,  on  the  edge  of  the  jungle,  when  there  was  n't  much 
cholera  about,  and  I  'd  nothing  to  do  but  think.  Then  some 
officious  people  got  me  what  they  called  a  better  berth  in  Bom- 
bay; and  it  went  again." 


214  THE     CREATORS 

She  was  uncertain  now  whether  he  were  speaking  of  his 
genius,  or  of  something  more  than  it. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  "  you  go  plodding  on  with  your 
work  for  months  and  never  think  about  it;  and  then  you  realize 
that  it 's  gone,  and  there  's  the  terror  —  ithe  most  awful  terror 
there  is  —  of  never  getting  back  to  it  again.  Then  there  '11  be 
months  of  holding  on  to  the  fringe  of  it  without  seeing  it  —  see- 
ing nothing  but  horrors,  hearing  them,  handling  them.  Then 
perhaps,  when  you  've  flung  yourself  down,  tired  out,  where  you 
are,  on  the  chance  of  sleeping,  it 's  there.  And  nothing  else 
matters.     Nothing  else  is." 

She  knew  now,  though  but  vaguely  and  imperfectly,  what  he 
meant. 

"  And  the  nexl  day  one  part  of  you  goes  about  among  the  hor- 
rors, and  the  other  part  remains  where  it  got  to." 

"  I  see." 

Obscurely  and  with  difficulty  she  saw,  she  made  it  out.  The 
thing  he  spoke  of  was  so  inconceivable,  so  tremendous  that  at 
times  he  was  afraid  of  having  it,  at  times  afraid  of  never  having 
it  again.  And  because,  as  he  had  said,  the  fear  of  not  having  it 
was  worse  than  any  fear,  he  had  to  be  sure  of  it,  he  had  to  put  it 
to  the  test.  So  he  went  down  into  life,  into  the  thick  of  it, 
among  all  the  horrors  and  the  terrors.  He  knew  that  if  he 
could  do  that  and  carry  his  vision  through  it,  if  it  was  n't  wiped 
out,  if  he  only  saw  it  once,  for  a  moment  afterwards,  he  would 
be  sure  of  it.  He  was  n't  really  sure  of  it  until  then,  not  a  bit 
surer  than  she  was  now. 

No ;  he  was  always  sure  of  it.  It  was  himself  he  was  not  sure 
of;  himself  that  he  put  to  the  test. 

And  it  was  liimself  that  he  had  carried  through  it.  He  had 
lived  face  to  face  with  all  the  corporeal  horrors;  he  had  handled 
them,  tasted  them,  he,  the  man  without  a  skin,  with  every 
sense,  every  nerve  in  him  exposed,  exquisitely  susceptible  to  tor- 
ture. And  he  had  come  through  it  all  as  through  a  thing  insub- 
stantial, a  thing  that  gave  way  before  his  soul  and  its  exultant, 
processional  vision  of  God. 


THE     CEEATOES  215 

"  The  absurd  thing  is  that  after  all  I  have  n't  grown  a  skin. 
I  'm  still  afraid  of  the  sight  of  blood." 

"  So  I  suppose  I  shall  go  on  being  afraid." 

"  Probably.  But  you  won't  turn  tail  any  more  than  I  should. 
You  never  ran  away." 

"  There  are  worse  things  than  running  away.  All  the  things 
that  go  on  inside  you,  the  cruel,  dreadful  things ;  the  cowardices 
and  treacheries.  Things  that  come  of  never  being  alone.  I 
have  to  sit  up  at  night  to  be  alone." 

"  My  child,  you  must  n't.     It 's  simply  criminal." 

"  If  I  did  n't,"  she  said,  "  I  should  never  get  it  in." 

He  understood  her  to  be  alluding  thus  vaguely  to  her  gift. 

"  I  know  it 's  criminal,  with  Papa  depending  on  me,  and  yet 
I  do  it.  Sometimes  I  'm  up  half  the  night,  hammering  and 
hammering  at  my  own  things;  things,  I  mean,  that  won't  sell, 
just  to  gratify  my  vanity  in  having  done  them." 

"  To  satisfy  your  instinct  for  perfection.  God  made  you  an 
artist." 

She  sighed.  "  He 's  made  me  so  many  things  besides. 
That 's  where  the  misery  comes  in." 

"  And  a  precious  poor  artist  you  'd  be  if  he  had  n't,  and  if 
the  misery  did  n't  come  in." 

She  shook  her  head,  superior  in  her  sad  wisdom.  "  Misery  's 
all  very  well  for  the  big,  tragic  people  like  Nina,  who  can  make 
something  out  of  it.  Why  throw  it  away  on  a  wretched,  clever 
little  imp  like  me  ?  " 

"  And  if  you  're  being  hammered  at  to  satisfy  an  instinct  for 
perfection  that  you're  not  aware  of ?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"  I  'm  certainly  not  aware  of  it.  Still,  I  can  understand  that 
I  mean  I  can  understand  an  instinct  for  perfection  making  shots 
in  the  dark  and  trying  things  too  big  for  it  and  their  not  com- 
ing off.     But  —  look  at  Papa." 

She  held  her  hands  out  helplessly.  The  gesture  smote  his 
heart. 

"  If  Papa  had  been  one  of  its  experiments  —  but  he  was  n't. 


216  T  II  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  K  S 

It  had  got  him  all  right  at  first.  You  've  no  idea  how  nice 
Papa  was.  You  've  only  to  look  at  him  now  to  see  how  nice  he 
is.  But  he  was  clever.  Not  very  clever "  (she  was  n't  going 
to  claim  too  much  for  him),  "but  just  clever  enough.  He  used 
to  say  such  funny,  queer,  delicious  things.  And  he  can't  say 
them  any  more." 

She  paused  and  went  on  gathering  vehemence  as  she  went. 

"  And  to  go  and  spoil  a  thing  like  that,  the  thing  you  'd  made 
as  fine  as  it  could  be,  to  tear  it  to  bits  and  throw  the  finest  bits 
away  —  it  does  n't  look  like  an  Instinct  for  Perfection,  does  it?  '' 

"The  finest  bits  aren't  thrown  away.  It's  what  you  still 
have  with  you,  what  you  see,  that 's  being  thrown  away  —  broken 
up  by  some  impatient,  impetuous  spiritual  energy,  as  a  medium 
that  no  longer  serves  its  instinct  for  perfection.     Do  you  see?" 

"  I  see  that  you  're  trying  to  make  me  happier  about  Papa. 
It 's  awfully  nice  of  you." 

"  I  'm  trying  to  get  you  away  from  a  distressing  view  of  the 
human  body.  To  you  a  diseased  human  body  is  a  thing  of  pal- 
pable horror.  To  me  it  is  simply  a  medium,  an  unstable,  oscil- 
lating medium  of  impetuous  spiritual  energies.  We  're  nowhere 
near  understanding  the  real  function  of  disease.  It  probably 
acts  as  a  partial  discarnation  of  the  spiritual  energies.  It 's  a 
sign  of  their  approaching  freedom.  Especially  those  diseases 
which  are  most  like  death  —  the  horrible  diseases  that  tear  down 
the  body  from  the  top,  destroying  great  tracts  of  brain  and 
nerve  tissue,  and  leaving  the  viscera  exuberant  with  life.  And 
if  you  knew  the  mystery  of  the  building  up  —  why,  the  growth 
of  an  unborn  child  is  more  wonderful  than  you  can  conceive. 
But,  if  you  really  knew,  that  would  be  nothing  to  the  secret 
—  the  mystery  —  the  romance  of  dissolution." 

His  phrase  was  luminous  to  her.  It  was  a  violent  rent  that 
opened  up  the  darkness  that  wrapped  her. 

"  If  you  could  see  through  it  you  'd  understand,  you  'd  see 
that  this  body,  made  of  the  radiant  dust  of  the  universe,  is  a  two- 
fold medium,  transmitting  the  splendour  of  the  universe  to  us, 
and  our  splendour  to  the  universe;  that  we  carry  about  in  every 
particle  of  us  a  spiritual  germ  which  is  not  the  spiritual  germ  of 


THECEEATORS  317 

our  father  or  our  mother  or  any  of  our  remote  ancestors ;  so  that 
what  we  take  is  insignificant  beside  what  we  give." 

Laura  looked  grave.  "  I  can't  pretend  for  a  moment,"  she 
said,  "  that  I  understand." 

"  Think,"  he  said,  "  think  of  the  body  of  a  new-born  baby ; 
think  how  before  its  birth  that  body  ran  through  the  whole 
round  of  creation  in  nine  months,  that  not  only  the  life  of  its 
parents,  but  the  life  of  the  whole  creation  was  present  in  the  cell 
it  started  from.  Think  how  our  body  comes  charged  with  spirit- 
ual energies,  indestructible  instincts,  infinite  memories  that  are 
not  ours;  that  its  life,  from  minute  to  minute,  goes  on  by  a 
process  of  combustion,  the  explosion  of  untamable  forces,  and 
that  we  —  ice  —  unmake  the  work  of  millions  of  ssons  in  a 
moment,  that  we  charge  it  with  our  will,  our  instincts,  our  mem- 
ories, so  that  there  's  not  an  atom  of  our  flesh  unpenetrated  by 
spirit,  not  a  cell  of  our  bodies  that  does  n't  hold  some  spiritual 
germ  of  us  —  so  that  we  multiply  our  souls  in  our  bodies ;  and 
their  dust,  when  they  scatter,  is  the  seed  of  our  universe,  flung 
Jieaven  knows  where." 

For  a  moment  the  clever  imp  looked  out  of  Laura's  eyes. 
"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  millions 
and  millions  of  intoxicated  brains,  all  trying  to  grasp  something, 
and  all  reeling,  and  I  can't  tell  whether  it 's  you  who  are  intox- 
icated, or  I.     And  I  want  to  know  how  you  know  about  it." 

A  change  passed  over  his  face.  It  became  suddenly  still  and 
incommunicable. 

"  And  the  only  thing  I  want  to  know,"  she  wailed,  ''  you 
won't  tell  me,  and  it 's  all  very  dim  and  disagreeable  and  sad." 

"What  won't  I  tell  you?" 

"  What 's  become  of  the  things  that  made  Papa  so  adorable  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  trying  to  tell  you.  I  've  been  trying  to  make  you 
see." 

"  I  can  only  see  that  they  've  gone." 

"  And  I  can  only  see  that  they  exist  more  exquisitely,  more 
intensely  than  ever.  Too  intensely  for  your  senses,  or  his,  to 
be  aware  of  them." 

"  Ah " 

14 


218  THE     CKEATOES 

"  And  I  should  say  the  same  of  a  still-born  baby  that  I  had 
never  seen  alive,  or  of  a  lunatic  whom  I  had  not  once  seen  sane." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  she  reiterated. 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  You  can't  tell  me  anything,  and  your  very  face  shuts  up 
when  I  look  at  it." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  anything,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  can  only  talk 
to  you  like  an  intoxicated  medical  student,  and  it 's  time  for  me 
to  go." 

She  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  him,  and  they  sat  silent. 

It  was  as  if  their  silence  was  a  borderland;  as  if  they  were 
both  pausing  there  before  they  plunged ;  behind  them  the  un- 
spoken, the  unspeakable ;  before  them  the  edge  of  perilous  speech. 

"  I  'm  glad  I  've  seen  you,"  she  said  at  last. 

He  ignored  the  valediction  of  her  tone. 

"  And  when  am  I  to  see  you  again  ?  "  he  said. 

This  time  she  did  not  answer,  and  he  had  a  profound  sense 
of  the  pause. 

He  asked  himself  now,  as  they  stood  (he  being  aware  that 
they  were  standing)  on  the  brink  of  the  deep,  how  far  she  had 
ever  really  accepted  his  preposterous  pretext?  Up  till  now  she 
had  appeared  to  be  taking  him  and  his  pretext  simply,  as  they 
came.  Her  silence,  her  pause  had  had  no  expectation  in  it.  It 
evidently  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  the  deep  could  open  up. 
That  was  how  she  had  struck  him,  more  and  more,  as  never  look- 
ing forward,  to  him  or  to  anything,  as  being  almost  afraid  to 
look  forward.  She  regarded  life  with  a  profound  distrust,  as  a 
thing  that  might  turn  upon  her  at  any  time  and  hurt  her. 

He  rose  and  she  followed  him,  holding  the  lamp  to  light  the 
stairway.     He  turned. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  have  you  seen  enough  of  me  ?  " 

They  were  outside  the  threshold  now,  and  she  stood  there,  one 
arm  holding  her  lamp,  the  other  stretched  across  the  doorway,  as 
if  she  would  keep  him  from  ever  entering  again. 

"  Or,"  said  he,  "  may  I  come  again  ?     Soon  ?  " 

"  Do,"  she  said,  "  and  bring  Nina  with  you." 

She  set  her  lamp  on  the  floor  at  the  stairhead,  and  backed, 
backed  from  him  into  the  darkness  of  tlic  room. 


XXVI 

IT  was  the  twenty-seventh  of  June,  Laura's  birthday.  Tan- 
queray  had  proposed  that  they  should  celebrate  it  by  a  day 
on  Wendover  Hill.  For  the  Kiddy's  increasing  pallor  cried  pite- 
ously  for  the  open  air. 

ISTina  was  to  bring  Owen  Prothero;  and  Jane,  in  Prothero's 
interests,  was  to  bring  Brodrick;  and  Tanqueray,  Laura  insisted, 
was  to  bring  his  wife, 

Eose  had  counted  the  days,  the  very  hours  before  Laura's 
birthday.  She  had  plenty  to  do  for  once  on  the  morning  of  the 
twenty-seventh,  making  rock  cakes  and  cutting  sandwiches  and 
packing  them  beautifully  in  a  basket.  Over-night  she  had 
washed  and  ironed  the  white  blouse  she  was  to  wear.  The  white 
blouse  lay  on  her  bed,  wonderful  as  a  thing  seen  in  a  happy 
dream.  Eose  could  hardly  permit  herself  to  believe  that  the 
dream  would  come  true,  and  that  Tanqueray  would  really  take 
her. 

It  all  depended  on  whether  Laura  could  get  off.  Getting 
Laura  off  was  the  difficulty  they  encountered  every  time  she 
had  a  birthday. 

So  uncertain  was  the  event  that  N'ina  and  Prothero  called  at 
the  house  in  Albert  Street  before  going  on  to  the  station.  They 
found  Tanqueray,  and  Eose  in  her  white  blouse,  waiting  outside 
on  the  pavement.  They  heard  that  Jane  Holland  was  in  there 
with  Laura,  bringing  pressure  to  bear  on  the  obstinate  Kiddy 
who  was  bent  on  the  renunciation  of  her  day. 

Jane's  voice  on  the  landing  called  to  them  to  come  up-stairs. 
Without  them  it  was  impossible,  she  said,  to  get  Laura  off. 

The  whole  house  was  helping,  in  a  passionate  publicity;  for 
every  one  in  it  loved  Laura.  Mr.  Baxter,  the  landlord,  was  on 
the  staircase,  bringing  Laura's  boots.  Tlie  maid  of  all  work 
was  leaning  out  of  the  window  on  the  landing,  brushing  Laura's 

219 


220  THECEEATOKS 

skirt.  A  tall  girl  was  standing  by  the  table  in  the  sitting-room. 
She  had  a  lean,  hectic  face,  and  prominent  blue  eyes  under 
masses  of  light  hair.  She  was  Addy  Eanger,  the  type-writer 
on  the  ground-floor,  who  had  come  up  from  her  typewriting  to 
see  what  she  could  do.  She  was  sewing  buttons  on  Laura's 
blouse  while  Jane  brought  pressure  upon  Laura.  "  Of  course 
you  're  going,"  Jane  was  saying.  "  It 's  not  as  if  you  had  a 
birthday  every  day." 

For  Laura  still  sat  at  her  writing-table,  labouring  over  a  para- 
graph, white  lipped  and  heavy  eyed.  Shuffling  all  over  the  room 
and  round  about  her  was  Mr.  Gunning.  He  was  pouring  out  the 
trouble  that  had  oppressed  him  for  the  last  four  years. 

"  She  won't  stop  scribbling.  It 's  scribble  —  scribble  —  scrib- 
ble all  day  long.  If  I  did  n't  lie  awake  to  stop  her  she  'd  be  at 
it  all  night.  I  've  caught  her  —  in  her  nightgown.  She  '11  get 
out  of  her  bed  to  do  it." 

"  Papa,  dear,  you  know  Miss  Lempriere  and  Mr.  Prothero  ?  " 

His  mind  adjusted  itself  instantly  to  its  vision  of  them.  He 
bowed  to  each.  He  was  the  soul  of  courtesy  and  hospitality, 
and  they  were  his  guests;  they  had  come  to  luncheon. 

"  Lolly,  my  dear,  have  you  ordered  luncheon  ?  —  You  must 
tell  Mrs.  Baxter  to  give  us  a  salmon  mayonnaise,  and  a  salad  and 
lamb  cutlets  in  aspic.  And,  Lolly !  Tell  her  to  put  a  bottle  of 
champagne  in  ice." 

For  in  his  blessed  state,  among  the  fragments  of  old  splen- 
dours that  still  clung  to  him,  Mr.  Gunning  had  preserved  inde- 
structibly his  sense  of  power  to  offer  his  friends  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne on  a  suitable  occasion,  and  every  occasion  now  ranked  with 
him  as  suitable. 

"  Yes,  darling,"  said  Laura,  and  dashed  down  a  line  of  her 
paragraph. 

He  shuffled  feebly  toward  the  door.  "  I  have  to  see  to  every- 
thing myself,"  he  said.  "  That  child  there  has  no  more  idea 
hoAv  to  order  a  luncheon  than  the  cat.  There  should  be,"  he  re- 
verted, "  lamb  cutlets  in  aspic.     I  must  see  to  it  myself." 

Ho  wandered  out  of  the  room  and  in  again,  driven  by  his 
dream. 


THE     CREATORS  221 

"  Oh,"  cried  Laura,  "  somebody  else  must  have  my  birthday. 
I  can't  liave  it.     I  must  sit  tiglit  and  finish  my  paragraph." 

"  You  '11  spoil  it  if  you  do,"  said  Prothero. 

"  Besides  spoiling  ever3'body's  day,"  said  Jane  judiciously. 

That  brought  Laura  round.  She  reflected  that,  if  she  sat 
tight  from  ten  that  evening  till  two  in  the  morning,  she  could 
save  their  day. 

But  first  she  had  to  finish  her  paragraph  and  then  to  hide  it 
and  lock  it  up.  Then  she  put  the  pens  and  ink  on  a  high  shelf 
out  of  Mr.  Gunning's  reach.  He  had  been  known  to  make  away 
with  the  materials  of  Lolly's  detestable  occupation  when  he  got 
the  chance.  He  attributed  to  it  that  mysterious,  irritating  sem- 
blance of  poverty  in  which  they  moved. 

He  smiled  at  her,  a  happy,  innocent  smile. 

"  That 's  right,  that 's  right.  Put  it  away,  my  dear,  put  it 
away." 

"  Yes,  Papa,"  said  Laura.  She  took  the  blouse  from  Addy 
Ranger,  and  she  and  Jane  Holland  disappeared  with  it  into  a 
small  inner  room.  From  the  voices  that  came  to  him  Prothero 
gathered  that  Jane  Holland  was  "  buttoning  her  up  the  back." 

"  Don't  say,"  cried  Laura,  "  that  it  won't  meet !  " 

"  Meet  ?     It  '11  go  twice  round  you.     You  don't  eat  enough." 

Silence. 

"  It 's  no  good,"  he  heard  Jane  Holland  say,  "  not  eating. 
I  've  tried  both." 

"  I,"  said  Laura  in  a  voice  that  penetrated,  "  over-eat.  Ha- 
bitually." 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Gunning,  "  and  find  my  hat  and  stick." 
His  idea  now  was  that  Laura  was  going  to  take  him  for  a  walk. 

Addy  Ranger  began  to  talk  to  Prothero.  He  liked  Addy. 
She  had  an  amusing  face  with  a  long  nose  and  wide  lips,  rest- 
less and  cynical.  She  confided  to  him  the  trouble  of  her  life, 
tlie  eternal  difficulty  of  finding  anywhere  a  permanent  job. 
Addy's  dream  was  permanence. 

Then  they  talked  of  Laura. 

"  Do  you  know  what  her  dream  is?  "  said  Addy.  "  To  be  able 
to  afford  wine,  and  chicken,  and  game  and  things  —  for  him." 


222  THE    CREATOES 

"  When  you  think  of  her  work  !  "  said  Nina.  "  It 's  charm- 
ing ;  it 's  finished,  to  a  point.     How  on  earth  does  she  do  it  ?  " 

"  She  sits  up  half  the  night  to  do  it,"  said  Prothero ;  "  when 
he  is  n't  there." 

"  And  it 's  killing  her,"  said  Addy,  who  had  her  back  to  the 
door. 

Mr.  Gunning  had  come  in  again  and  he  heard  her.  He  gazed 
at  them  with  a  vague  sweetness,  not  understanding  what  he 
heard. 

Then  Laura  ran  in  among  them,  in  a  tremendous  hurry.  She 
was  n't  ready  yet.  It  was  a  maddening,  protracted  agony,  get- 
ting Laura  off.  She  had  forgotten  to  lock  the  cupboard  where 
the  whisky  was  (a  shilling's  worth  in  a  medicine  bottle)  ;  and 
poor  Papa  might  find  it.  Since  he  had  had  his  sunstroke  you 
could  n't  trust  him  with  anything,  not  even  with  a  jam-pot. 
Then  Addy,  at  Laura's  request,  rushed  out  of  the  room  to  find 
Laura's  hat  and  her  handkerchief  and  her  gloves  —  not  the  ones 
with  the  holes  in  them.     And  then  Laura  looked  at  her  hands. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  look  at  my  poor  hands.  I  can't  go  like 
that.     I  liaie  an  inky  woman." 

And  she  dashed  out  to  wash  the  ink  off. 

And  then  the  gloves  found  by  Addy  had  all  holes  in  them. 
And  at  that  Laura  stamped  her  foot  and  said,  "  Damn !  " 

The  odds  against  Laura's  getting  off  were  frightful. 

But  she  was  putting  on  her  hat.  She  was  really  ready  just 
as  Tanqueray's  voice  was  heard  calling  on  the  stairs,  "You 
must  hurry  up  if  you  want  to  catch  that  train."  And  now  they 
had  to  deal  seriously  with  Mr.  Gunning,  who  stood  expectant, 
holding  his  hat  and  stick. 

"  Good-bye,  Papa  dear,"  said  she. 

"  Am  I  not  to  come,  too  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gunning. 

"  Not  to-day,  dear." 

She  was  kissing  him  while  Jane  and  Nina  waited  in  the  open 
doorway.  Their  eyes  signed  to  her  to  be  brave  and  follow  them. 
But  Laura  lingered. 

Prothero  looked  at  Laura,  and  Mr.  Gunning  looked  at  Pro- 
thero.    His  terrible  idea  had  come  back  to  him  at  the  sight  of 


T  H  E     C  K  E  A  T  0  K  S  22S 

the  young  man,  risen,  and  standing  beside  Laura  for  departure. 
"  Are  you  going  to  take  my  little  girl  away  from  me  ?  "  lie 
said. 

"  Poor  little  Papa,  of  course  lie  is  n't.  I  'm  going  with  Jane, 
and  Nina.     You  know  Nina  ?  " 

"  And  who,"  he  cried,  "  is  going  to  take  me  for  my  walk  ?  " 

He  had  her  there.     She  wavered. 

"Addy's  coming  in  to  give  you  your  tea.  You  like  Addy." 
(He  bowed  to  Miss  Ranger  with  a  supreme  courtesy.)  "And 
I  '11  be  back  in  time  to  see  you  in  your  little  bed." 

She  ran  off.  Addy  Eanger  took  Mr.  Gunning  very  tenderly 
by  the  arm  and  led  him  to  the  stairs  to  see  her  go. 

Outside  on  the  pavement  Tanqueray  gave  way  to  irritation. 

"  If,"  said  he,  "  it  would  only  please  Heaven  to  take  that  old 
gentleman  to  itself." 

"  It  won't,"  said  Nina. 

"  How  she  would  hate  us  if  she  heard  us,"  said  Jane. 

"  There  ought  to  be  somebody  to  take  care  of  'im,"  said  Pose, 
moved  to  compassion.  "  'E  might  go  off  in  a  fit  any  day.  She 
can't  be  easy  when  'e  's  left." 

"  He  must  be  left,"  said  Tanqueray  with  ferocity. 

"  Here  she  is,"  said  Jane. 

There  she  was;  and  there,  too,  was  her  family.  For,  at  the 
sight  of  Laura  running  down-stairs  with  Prothero  after  her,  Mr. 
Gunning  broke  loose  from  Addy's  arm  and  followed  her,  peril- 
ously followed  her.  Addy  was  only  just  in  time  to  draw  him 
back  from  the  hall  door  as  Prothero  closed  it. 

And  then  little  Laura,  outside,  heard  a  cry  as  of  a  thing  trap- 
ped, and  betrayed,  and  utterly  abandoned. 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  cried.  "  He  thinks  I  'm  leaving  him  —  that 
I  'm  never  coming  back.     He  always  thinks  it." 

"  You  know,"  said  Nina,  "  he  never  thinks  anything  for  more 
than  five  minutes." 

"  I  know  —  but " 

Nina  caught  her  by  the  shoulder.  "You  stupid  Kiddy,  you 
miist  forget  him  when  he  is  n't  there." 

"  But  he  is  there,"  said  Laura.     "  I  can't  leave  him." 


224  THECEEATORS 

Between  her  eyes  and  Prothero's  there  passed  a  look  of  eternal 
patience  and  despair.  Eose  saw  it.  She  saw  how  it  was  with 
them,  and  she  saw  what  she  could  do.  She  turned  back  to  the 
door. 

"  You  go/'  she  said.     "  I  '11  stay  with  him." 

From  the  set  of  her  little  chin  you  saw  that  protest  and  argu- 
ment were  useless. 

"  I  can  take  care  of  him,"  she  said.     "  I  know  how." 

And  as  she  said  it  there  came  into  her  face  a  soft  flame  of  joy. 
For  Tanqueray  was  looking  at  her,  and  smiling  as  he  used  to 
smile  in  the  days  when  he  adored  her.  He  was  thinking  in  this 
moment  how  adorable  she  was. 

"  You  may  as  well  let  her,"  he  said.  "  She  is  n't  happy  if 
she  can't  take  care  of  somebody." 

And,  as  they  wondered  at  her,  the  door  opened  and  closed 
again  on  Eose  and  her  white  blouse. 


XXVII 

THEY  found  Brodriek  waiting  for  them  at  the  station.  Im- 
perturbable, on  the  platform,  he  seemed  to  be  holding  in 
leash  the  Wendover  train  whose  engines  were  throbbing  for 
flight. 

Prothero  suffered,  painfully,  the  inevitable  introduction. 
Tanqueray  had  told  him  that  if  he  still  wanted  work  on  the 
papers  Brodriek  was  his  man.  Brodriek  had  an  idea.  On  the 
long  hill-road  going  up  from  Wendover  station  Prothero,  at 
Tanqueray's  suggestion,  tried  to  make  himself  as  civil  as  possible 
to  Miss  Holland, 

Tentatively  and  with  infinite  precautions  Jane  laid  before 
him  Brodrick's  idea.  The  War  Correspondent  of  the  "  Morning 
Telegraph  "  was  coming  home  invalided  from  Manchuria,  She 
understood  that  his  place  would  be  offered  to  Mr.  Prothero. 
Would  he  care  to  take  it? 

He  did  not  answer. 

She  merely  laid  the  idea  before  him  to  look  at.  He  must 
weigh,  she  said,  the  dangers  and  the  risks.  From  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  she  gathered  that  these  were  the  last  things  he 
would  weigh. 

And  yet  he  hesitated.  She  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  were 
following  the  movements  of  Laura  Gunning  where,  well  in  front 
of  them,  the  marvellous  Kiddy,  in  the  first  wildness  of  her  re- 
lease from  paragraphs,  darted  and  plunged  and  leaped  into  the 
hedges. 

Jane  allowed  some  moments  to  lapse  before  she  spoke  again. 
The  war,  she  said,  would  not  last  for  ever;  and  if  he  took 
this  berth,  it  would  lead  almost  certainly  to  a  regular  job  on  the 
"  Telegraph  ''  at  home. 

He  saw  all  that,  he  said,  and  he  was  profoundly  grateful. 

225 


226  THECREATOES 

His  eyes,  as  they  turned  to  her,  showed  for  a  moment  a  film  of 
tears.     Then  they  wandered  from  her. 

He  asked  if  he  might  think  it  over  and  let  her  know. 

"  When,"  she  said,  "  can  you  let  me  know  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  probably,  before  the  end  of  the  day." 

The  day  was  drawing  to  its  end  when  the  group  drifted  and 
divided.  Brodrick,  still  imperturbable,  took  possession  of  Jane, 
and  Prothero,  with  his  long  swinging  stride,  set  off  in  pursuit  of 
the  darting  Laura. 

Tanqueray,  thus  left  behind  with  Nina,  watched  him  as  he 
went. 

"  He  's  off,  Nina.  Bolted."  His  eyes  smiled  at  her,  suave, 
deprecating,  delighted  eyes  and  recklessly  observant. 

"  So  has  Jane,"  said  Nina,  with  her  dangerous  irony. 

Apart  from  them  and  from  their  irony,  Prothero  was  at  last 
alone  with  Laura  on  the  top  of  Wendover  Hill.  She  had  ceased 
to  dart  and  to  plunge. 

He  found  for  her  a  hidden  place  on  the  green  slope,  under  a 
tree,  and  there  he  stretched  himself  at  her  side. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  first  time  I  've  seen  you 
out  of  doors." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  she  in  a  strange,  even  voice. 

She  drew  off  her  gloves  and  held  out  the  palms  of  her  hands 
as  if  she  were  bathing  them  in  the  pure  air.  Her  face  was 
turned  from  him  and  lifted;  her  nostrils  widened;  her  lips, 
parted ;  her  small  breasts  heaved ;  she  drank  the  air  like  water. 
To  his  eyes  she  was  the  wliite  image  of  mortal  thirst. 

"  Is  it  absolutely  necessary  for  you  to  live  in  Camden  Town  ?  " 
he  said. 

She  sat  up  very  straight  and  stared  steadily  in  front  of  her,  as 
if  she  faced,  unafraid,  the  invincible  necessity. 

"  It  is.  Absolutely."  She  explained  that  Baxter,  her  landlord, 
had  been  an  old  servant  of  Papa's,  and  that  the  important  thing 
was  to  be  with  people  who  would  be  nice  to  him  and  not  mind, 
she  said,  his  little  ways. 

He  sighed. 


THE     CEEA  TOES  227 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  should  do  with  you  if  I  could  have  my 
way  ?  I  should  turn  you  into  a  green  garden  and  keep  you  there 
from  nine  in  the  morning  till  nine  at  night.  I  should  make  you 
walk  a  mile  with  me  twice  a  day  —  not  too  fast.  All  the  rest 
of  the  time  you  should  lie  on  a  couch  on  a  lawn,  with  a  great 
rose-bush  at  your  head  and  a  bed  of  violets  at  your  feet.  I 
should  bring  you  something  nice  to  eat  every  two  hours." 

"  And  how  much  work  do  you  suppose  I  should  get  through  ?  " 

"  Work  ?  You  would  n't  do  any  work  for  a  year  at  least  —  if 
I  had  my  way." 

"  It 's  a  beautiful  dream,"  said  she.  She  closed  her  eyes,  but 
whether  to  shut  the  dream  out  or  to  keep  it  in  he  could  not  say. 

"  I  don't  want,"  she  said  presently,  "  to  lie  on  a  couch  in  a 
garden  with  roses  at  my  head  and  violets  at  my  feet,  as  if  I  were 
dead.     You  don't  know  how  tre  —  mend  —  ously  alive  I  am." 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  how  tremendously  alive  you  'd  be  if  I 
had  my  way  —  if  you  were  happy." 

She  was  still  sitting  up,  nursing  her  knees,  and  staring 
straight  in  front  of  her  at  nothing. 

"  You  don't  know  what  it 's  like,"  she  said ;  "  the  unbearable 
pathos  of  Papa." 

"  It 's  your  pathos  that 's  unbearable." 

"  Oh  don't !  Don't  be  nice  to  me.  I  shall  hate  you  if  you  're 
nice  to  me."  She  paused,  staring.  "  I  was  unkind  to  him  yes- 
terday. I  see  how  pathetic  he  is,  and  yet  I  'm  unkind.  I  snap 
like  a  little  devil.  You  don't  know  what  a  devil,  what  a  de- 
testable little  devil  I  can  be." 

She  turned  to  him,  sparing  herself  no  pain  in  her  confession. 

"  I  was  cruel  to  him.  It 's  horrible,  like  being  cruel  to  a 
child."     The  horror  of  it  was  in  her  stare. 

"  It 's  your  nerves,"  he  said  ;  "  it 's  because  you  're  always 
frightened."  He  seemed  to  meditate  before  he  spoke  again. 
"  How  are  you  going  on  ?  " 

"  You  see  how." 

"  I  do  indeed.  It 's  unbearable  to  think  of  your  having  to 
endure  these  things.     And  I  have  to  stand  by  and  see  you  at  the 


228  THE     CREA  TOES 

end  of  your  tether,  hurt  and  frightened,  and  to  know  that  I  can 
do  nothing  for  you.  If  I  could  have  my  way  you  would  never 
be  hurt  or  frightened  any  more." 

As  he  spoke  something  gave  way  in  her.  It  felt  like  a  sudden 
weakening  and  collapse  of  her  will,  drawing  her  heart  with  it. 

"  But,"  he  went  on,  "  as  I  can't  have  my  way,  the  next  best 
thing  is  —  to  stand  by  you." 

She  struggled  as  against  physical  faintness,  struggled  success- 
fully. 

"  Since  I  can't  take  you  out  of  it,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  come  and 
live  in  Camden  Town  too." 

"  You  could  n't  live  in  Camden  Town." 

"  I  can  live  anywhere  I  choose.  I  should  n't  see  Camden 
Town." 

"  You  could  n't,"  she  insisted.  "  And  if  you  could  I  would  n't 
let  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  —  it  would  n't  do." 

He  smiled. 

"  It  would  be  all  right.  I  should  get  a  room  near  you  and 
look  after  your  father." 

"  It  would  n't  do,"  she  said  again.     "  I  could  n't  let  you." 

"I  can  do  anything  I  choose.  Your  little  hands  can't  stop 
me." 

She  looked  at  him  gravely.     "  Why  do  you  choose  it  ?  " 

"  Because  I  can  choose  nothing  else." 

"  Ah,  why  are  you  so  good  to  me  ?  " 

"  Because  "  —  he  mocked  her  absurd  intonation. 

"  Don't  tell  me.  It 's  because  you  are  good.  You  can't  help 
it." 

"  No ;  I  can't  help  it." 

"But  — "  she  objected,  "I'm  so  horrid.  I  don't  believe  in 
God  and  I  say  damn  when  I  'm  angry." 

"  I  heard  you." 

"  You  said  yourself  I  wanted  violets  to  sweeten  me  and  ham- 
mers to  soften  me  —  you  think  I  'm  so  bitter  and  so  hard." 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S  229 

"  You  know  what  I  think  you.  And  you  know,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  love  you." 

"  You  must  n't,"  she  whispered.     "  It 's  no  good." 

He  seemed  not  to  have  heard  her.  "  And  some  day,"  he  said, 
"  I  shall  marry  you.  I  'd  marry  you  to-morrow  if  I  'd  enough 
money  to  buy  a  hat  with." 

"  It 's  no  use  loving  me.     You  can't  marry  me." 

"  I  know  I  can't.     But  it  makes  no  difference." 

"  No  difference  ?  " 

"  Not  to  me." 

"  If  you  could,"  she  said,  "  I  would  n't  let  you.  It  would  only 
be  one  misery  more." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  it  would  be  ?  " 

"  I  won't  even  let  you  love  me.     That 's  misery  too." 

"  You  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  I  do  know,  and  I  don't  want  any  more  of  it.  I  've  been 
hurt  with  it." 

With  a  low  cry  of  pity  and  pain  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
held  her  to  him. 

She  writhed  and  struggled  in  his  clasp.  "Don't,"  she  cried, 
"  don't  touch  me.     Let  me  alone.     I  can't  bear  it." 

He  turned  her  face  to  his  to  find  the  truth  in  her  eyes.  "  And 
yet,"  he  said,  "  you  love  me." 

"  No,  no.  It 's  no  use,"  she  reiterated ;  "  it 's  no  use.  I  won't 
have  it.     I  won't  let  you  love  me." 

"  You  can't  stop  me." 

"  I  can  stop  you  torturing  me !  " 

She  was  freed  from  his  arms  now.  She  sat  up.  Her  small 
face  was  sullen  and  defiant  in  its  expression  of  indomitable  will. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "you  can  stop  me  touching  you.  But 
it  makes  no  difference.  I  shall  go  on  caring  for  you.  It 's  no 
use  struggling  and  crying  against  that." 

"  I  shall  go  on  struggling." 

"  Go  on  as  long  as  you  like.     It  does  n't  matter.     I  can  wait." 

She  rose.     "  Come,"  she  said.     "  It 's  time  to  be  going  back." 

He  obeyed  her.     When  they  reached  the  rise  on  the  station 


230  THE     CEEA  TOES 

road  they  turned  and  waited  for  the  others  to  come  up  with 
them.  They  looked  back.  Their  hill  was  on  their  left,  to  their 
right  was  the  great  plain,  grey  with  mist.  They  stood  silent, 
oppressed  by  their  sense  of  a  sad  and  sudden  beauty.  Then  with 
the  others  they  swung  down  the  road  to  the  station. 

Before  the  end  of  the  day  Brodrick  heard  that  his  offer  was 
accepted. 


XXVIII 

IT  was  Tanqueray  wlio  took  Laura  home  that  night.     Pro- 
thero  parted  from  her  at  the  station  and  walked  southwards 
with  Nina  Lempriere. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  go  with  her  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  could  n't  have  let  you  walk  home  by  yourself." 

"  As  if  I  was  n't  always  by  myself." 

Her  voice  defied,  almost  repelled  him ;  but  her  face  turned  to 
him  with  its  involuntary  surrender. 

He  edged  himself  in  beside  her  with  a  sudden  protective  move- 
ment, so  that  his  shoulders  shielded  her  from  the  contact  of  the 
passers  by.     But  the  pace  he  set  was  terrific. 

"  You  've  no  idea,  Owen,  how  odd  you  look  careering  through 
the  streets." 

"  Not  odder  than  you,  do  I  ?  You  ought  to  be  swinging  up 
a  mountain-side,  or  sitting  under  an  oak-tree.  That 's  how  I 
used  to  see  you." 

"  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  I  remember  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you,  fifteen  years  ago. 
I  'd  gone  up  the  mountain  through  the  wood,  looking  for  wild 
cats.  I  was  beating  my  way  up  through  the  undergrowth  when 
I  came  on  you.  You  were  above  me,  hanging  by  your  arms  from 
an  oak-tree,  swinging  yourself  from  the  upper  ledge  down  on  to 
the  track.  Your  hair  —  you  had  lots  of  hair,  all  tawny  —  some 
of  it  was  caught  up  by  the  branches,  some  of  it  hung  over  your 
eyes.  They  gleamed  through  it,  all  round  and  startled,  and 
there  were  green  lights  in  them.  You  dropped  at  my  feet  and 
dashed  down  the  mountain.     I  had  found  my  wild  cat." 

"  I  remember.  You  frightened  me.  Your  eyes  were  so 
queer." 

"  Not  queerer  than  yours,  Nina.  Yours  had  all  the  enchant- 
ment and  all  the  terror  of  the  mountains  in  them." 

231 


233  THECEEATORS 

"  And  yours  —  yours  had  the  terror  and  the  enchantment  of 
a  spirit,  a  human  spirit  lost  in  a  dream.  A  beautiful  and  dread- 
ful dream,  I'd  forgotten;  and  now  I  remember.  You  look 
like  that  now." 

"  That 's  your  fault,  Nina.  You  make  me  remember  my  old 
dreams." 

"  Owen,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  want  to  get  away  ?  Don't  these 
walls  press  on  you  and  hurt  you  ?  " 

They  were  passing  down  a  side-street,  between  rows  of  bare 
houses,  houses  with  iron  shutters  and  doors  closed  on  the  dingy 
secrets,  the  mean  mysteries  of  trade ;  houses  of  high  and  solitary 
lights  where  some  naked  window-square  hung  golden  in  a  wall 
greyer  than  the  night. 

"  Not  they,"  he  said.  "  I  've  lost  that  sense.  Look  there  — 
you  and  I  could  go  slap  through  all  that,  and  it  would  n't  even 
close  over  us ;  it  would  simply  disappear." 

They  had  come  into  tlie  lighted  Strand.  A  monstrous  hotel 
rose  before  them,  its  masonry  pale,  insubstantial  in  the  twilight, 
a  delicate  framework  for  its  piled  and  serried  squares  of  light. 
It  showed  like  a  hollow  bastion,  filled  with  insurgent  fire,  flung 
up  to  heaven.  Tlie  buildings  on  either  side  of  it  were  mere  ex- 
tensions of  its  dominion. 

"  Your  sense  is  a  sense  I  have  n't  got,"  said  she. 

"  I  lose  it  sometimes.     But  it  always  comes  back." 

"Isn't  it  — horrible?" 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  It  is  n't." 

They  plunged  down  a  steep  side-street  off  the  Strand,  and 
turned  on  to  their  terrace.  He  let  her  in  with  his  latchkey  and 
followed  her  up-stairs.     He  stopped  at  her  landing. 

"  May  I  come  in?  "  he  said.     "  Or  is  it  too  late?  " 

"  It  is  n't  late  at  all,"  said  she.  And  he  followed  her  into  the 
room. 

He  did  not  see  the  seat  she  offered  him,  but  stood  leaning  his 
shoulders  against  the  chimneypicce.  She  knew  that  he  had 
something  to  say  to  her  that  must  be  said  instantly  or  not  at  all. 
And  yet  he  kept  silence.  Whatever  it  was  that  he  had  to  say  it 
was  not  an  easy  thing. 


THECREATOES  233 

"You  'd  like  some  coffee?"  slie  said  curtly,  by  way  of  break- 
ing his  dumb  and  dangerous  mood. 

He  roused  himself  almost  irritably. 

"  Thanks,  no.     Don't  bother  about  it." 

She  left  him  and  went  into  the  inner  room  to  make  it.  She 
was  afraid  of  him;  afraid  of  what  she  might  have  to  hear.  She 
had  the  sense  of  things  approaching,  of  separation,  of  the 
snapping  of  the  tense  thread  of  time  that  bound  them  for 
her  moment.  It  was  as  if  she  could  spin  it  out  by  inter- 
posing between  the  moment  and  its  end  a  series  of  insignificant 
acts. 

Through  the  open  doors  she  saw  him  as  he  turned  and  wan- 
dered to  the  bookcase  and  stood  there,  apparently  absorbed. 
You  would  have  said  that  he  had  come  in  to  look  for  a  book, 
and  that  when  he  had  found  what  he  wanted  he  would  go.  She 
saw  him  take  her  book,  "  Tales  of  the  Marches,"  from  its  shelf 
and  open  it. 

She  became  aware  of  this  as  she  was  about  to  lift  the  kettle 
from  the  gas-ring  burning  on  the  hearth.  Her  thin  sleeve  swept 
the  ring.  She  was  stooping,  but  her  face  was  still  raised;  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  Prothero,  held  by  what  they  saw.  The  small 
blue  jets  of  the  ring  flickered  and  ran  together  and  soared  as 
her  sleeve  caught  them.  Nina  made  no  sound.  Prothero 
turned  and  saw  her  standing  there  by  the  hearth,  motionless,  her 
right  arm  wrapped  in  flame. 

Pie  leaped  to  her,  and  held  her  tight  with  her  arm  against 
his  breast,  and  beat  out  the  fire  with  his  hands.  He  dressed  the 
burn  and  bandaged  it  with  cool,  professional  dexterity,  trembling 
a  little,  taking  pain  from  her  pain. 

"^\liy  didn't  you  call  out?"  he  said. 

"  I  did  n't  want  you  to  know." 

"  You  'd  have  been  burnt  sooner  ?  " 

He  had  slung  her  arm  in  a  scarf ;  and,  as  he  tied  the  knot  on 
her  shoulder,  his  face  was  brought  close  to  hers.  She  turned 
her  head  and  her  eyes  met  his. 

"  I  'd  have  let  my  whole  body  burn,"  she  whispered,  "  sooner 
than  hurt  —  your  hands." 
15 


234  THE     CREATORS 

His  hands  dropped  from  her  shoulder.  He  thrust  them  into 
his  pockets  out  of  her  sight. 

She  followed  him  into  the  outer  room,  struggling  against  her 
sense  of  his  recoil. 

"  If  you  had  a  body  like  mine,"  she  said,  "  you  'd  be  glad  to 
get  rid  of  it  on  any  terms,"  She  wondered  if  he  saw  through 
her  pitiable  attempt  to  call  back  the  words  that  had  flung  them- 
selves upon  him. 

"  There  's  nothing  wrong  with  your  body,"  he  answered  coldly. 

"  No,  Owen,  nothing ;  except  that  I  'm  tired  of  it." 

"  The  tiredness  will  pass.     Is  that  burn  hurting  you  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.     I  don't  mind  it." 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  the  book  he  had  dropped  in  his 
rush  to  her.  She  saw  now  that  he  looked  at  it  as  a  man  looks 
at  the  thing  he  loves,  and  that  his  hands  as  they  touched  it 
shook  with  a  nervous  tremor. 

She  came  and  stood  by  him,  without  speaking,  and  he  turned 
and  faced  her. 

"  Nina,"  he  said,  "  why  did  you  write  this  terrible  book  ?  If 
you  had  n't  written  it,  I  should  never  have  been  here." 

"  That 's  why,  then,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.     You  had  to  write  it,  and  I  had  to  come." 

"  Yes,  Owen,"  she  said  gently. 

"  You  brought  me  here,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't  understand  it." 

"  Can't  understand  what  ?  " 

"  The  fascination  I  had  for  you." 

He  closed  the  book  and  laid  it  down. 

"  You  were  my  youth,  Nina." 

He  held  out  his  hands  toward  her,  the  hands  that  he  had  just 
now  withdrawn.  She  would  have  taken  them,  but  for  the  look 
in  his  eyes  that  forbade  her  to  touch  him. 

"  My  youth  was  dumb.  It  could  n't  make  itself  immortal. 
You  did  that  for  it." 

"  But  the  people  of  those  tales  are  not  a  bit  like  you." 

"  No.     They  are  me.     They  are  what  I  was.     Your  people 


THECREATOES  235 

are  not  people,  they  are  not  characters,  they  are  incarnate  pas- 
sions." 

"  So  like  you,"  she  said,  with  a  resurgence  of  her  irony. 

"  You  don't  know  me.  You  don't  remember  me.  But  I 
know  and  remember  you.  You  asked  me  once  how  I  knew. 
That 's  how.     I  've  been  where  you  were." 

He  paused. 

"  If  my  youth  were  here,  Nina,  it  would  be  at  your  feet.  As 
it  is,  it  rose  out  of  its  grave  to  salute  you.  It  follows  you  now, 
sometimes,  like  an  unhappy  ghost." 

It  was  as  if  he  had  told  her  that  his  youth  loved  her;  that 
she  had  not  gone  altogether  unclaimed  and  undesired;  she  had 
had  her  part  in  him. 

Then  she  remembered  that,  if  she  was  his  youth,  Laura  was 
his  manhood. 

She  knew  that  none  of  these  things  were  what  he  had  come 
to  say. 

He  said  it  lingering  in  the  doorway,  after  their  good-night. 
He  had  got  to  go,  he  said,  next  week  to  Manchuria.  Brodrick 
was  sending  him. 

She  stood  there  staring  at  him,  her  haggard  face  white  under 
the  blow.  Her  mouth  opened  to  speak,  but  her  voice  died  in  her 
tortured  throat. 

He  turned  suddenly  from  her  and  went  up  the  stairs.  The 
door  fell  to  between  them. 

She  groped  her  way  about  the  room  as  if  it  were  in  darkness. 
When  her  feet  touched  the  fur  of  the  tiger-skin  by  the  hearth 
she  flung  herself  down  on  it.  She  had  no  thought  in  her  brain 
nor  any  sense  of  circumstance.  It  was  as  if  every  nerve  and 
pulse  in  her  body  M-ere  gathered  to  the  one  nerve  and  the  one 
pulse  of  her  heart. 

At  midnight  she  dragged  herself  to  her  bed,  and  lay  there, 
stretched  out,  still  and  passive  to  the  torture.  Every  now  and 
then  tears  cut  their  way  under  her  eyelids  with  a  pricking  pain. 
Every  now  and  then  the  burn  in  her  arm  bit  deeper;  but  her 
mind  remained  dull  to  this  bodily  distress.     The  trouble  of  her 


236  THECREATOES 

body,  that  had  so  possessed  her  when  Owen  laid  his  hands  on 
her,  had  passed.  She  could  have  judged  her  pain  to  be  wholly 
spiritual,  its  intensity  so  raised  it,  so  purged  it  from  all  passion 
of  flesh  and  blood. 

In  the  morning  the  glass  showed  her  a  face  thinned  in  one 
night;  the  skin,  tightened  over  each  high  and  delicate  ridge  of 
bone,  had  the  glaze  and  flush  of  grief ;  her  hooded  eyes  stared  at 
her,  red-rimmed,  dilated ;  eyes  where  desire  dies  miserably  of 
its  own  pain.  Her  body,  that  had  carried  itself  so  superbly,  was 
bowed  as  if  under  the  scourging  of  a  lash ;  she  held  it  upright 
only  by  an  effort  of  her  will.  It  was  incredible  that  it  should 
ever  have  been  a  thing  of  swift  and  radiant  energy;  incredible 
that  its  ruin  should  be  an  event  of  yesterday.  She  lived  in  an 
order  of  time  that  was  all  her  own,  solitary,  interminable,  not  to 
be  measured  by  any  clock  or  sun.  It  was  there  that  her  undoing 
was  accomplished. 

Yet  she  knew  vaguely  that  he  was  to  sail  in  six  days.  Every 
day  he  came  to  her  and  dressed  her  burn  and  bandaged  it. 

"  This  thing  has  got  to  heal,"  he  said,  "  before  I  go." 

She  saw  his  going  now  as  her  own  deed.  It  was  she,  not 
Brodrick,  who  was  sending  him  to  Manchuria.  It  was  she  who 
had  pushed  him  to  the  choice  between  poverty  and  that  danger- 
ous exile.  It  was  all  done  six  weeks  ago  when  she  handed  him 
over  to  Jane  Holland.  She  was  aware  that  in  his  desperate  de- 
cision Brodrick  counted  for  more  than  Jane,  and  Laura  Gunning 
for  more  than  Brodrick;  but  behind  them  all  she  saw  herself; 
behind  all  their  movements  her  own  ruinous  impulse  was  su- 
preme. 

She  asked  herself  why  she  had  not  obeyed  the  profounder  in- 
stinct that  had  urged  her  to  hold  him  as  long  as  she  had  the  power 
to  hold?  For  she  had  had  it.  In  his  supersensual  way  he  had 
cared  for  her;  and  her  nature,  with  all  its  murkiness,  had 
responded  to  the  supersensual  appeal.  Her  passion  for  Owen 
was  so  finely  strung  that  it  exulted  in  its  own  reverberance,  and 
thus  remained  satisfied  in  its  frustration,  sublimely  heedless  of 
its  end.  There  had  been  moments  when  she  had  felt  that  noth- 
ing could  take  Owen  from  her.     He  was  more  profoundly  part 


THECEEATOES  237 

of  her  than  if  they  had  been  joined  by  the  material  tie.  She 
was  bound  to  him  by  bonds  so  intimately  and  secretly  interwoven 
that  to  rupture  any  one  of  them  would  kill  her. 

She  knew  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  not  the  first.  But 
her  experience  of  Tanqueray  was  no  help  to  her.  Separation 
from  Tanqueray  had  not  killed  her;  it  had  made  her  more  alive, 
with  the  fierce  vitality  of  passion  that  bore  hatred  in  its  blood. 
She  had  no  illusion  as  to  the  nature  of  her  feelings.  Tan- 
queray had  a  devil,  and  it  had  let  loose  the  unhappy  beast  that 
lurked  in  her.     That  was  all. 

Owen,  she  knew,  had  seen  the  lurking  thing,  but  he  had  not 
played  wuth  it,  he  had  not  drawn  it;  he  had  had  compassion  on 
the  beast.  And  this  terrible  compassion  hung  about  her  now; 
it  kept  her  writhing.  Each  day  it  screwed  her  nerves  tighter 
to  the  pitch.  She  told  herself  that  she  preferred  a  brutality 
like  Tanqueray's  which  would  have  made   short  work  of  her. 

As  yet  she  had  kept  her  head.  She  was  on  her  guard,  her 
grip  to  the  throat  of  the  beast. 

She  was  now  at  the  end  of  Owen's  last  day.  He  had  come 
and  gone.  She  had  endured  the  touch  of  his  hands  upon  her 
for  the  last  time.  Her  wound  was  inflamed,  and  she  had  had 
peace  for  moments  while  it  gnawed  into  her  flesh,  a  tooth  of 
fire,  dominating  her  secret  pain.  He  had  stood  beside  her,  his 
body  touching  hers,  unaware  of  the  contact,  absorbed  in  his 
service  to  her  suffering.  And  as  he  handled  the  wound,  he  had 
praised  her  courage. 

"  It  '11  hurt  like  hell,"  he  had  said,  "  before  it 's  done  with 
you.     But  when  it  hurts  most  it 's  healing." 

That  night  she  did  not  sleep.  Neither  did  he.  As  she  lay 
in  bed  she  could  hear  his  feet  on  the  floor,  pacing  his  narrow 
room  at  the  back,  above  hers. 

Her  wild  beast  woke  and  tore  her.  She  was  hardly  aware  of 
the  sound  of  his  feet  overhead.  It  was  indifferent  to  her  as 
traffic  in  the  street.  The  throb  of  it  was  merged  in  the  steady 
throb  of  her  passion. 

The  beast  was  falling  now  upon  Laura's  image  and  destroy- 
ing it.     It  hated  Laura  as  it  had  once  hated  Tanqueray.     It 


238  THECKEATORS 

hated  her  white  face  and  virginal  body  and  the  pathos  that  had 
drawn  Owen  to  her.  For  the  beast,  though  savage,  was  not  blind. 
It  discerned ;  it  discriminated.  In  that  other  time  of  its  unloos- 
ing it  had  not  fallen  upon  Jane;  it  had  known  Jane  for  its 
fellow,  the  victim  of  Tanqueray's  devilry.  It  had  pursued  Tan- 
queray  and  clung  to  him,  and  it  had  turned  on  him  when  he 
beat  it  back.  It  could  have  lain  low  for  ever  at  Owen's  feet  and 
under  the  pity  of  his  hands.  It  had  no  quarrel  with  spirit. 
But  now  that  it  saw  Laura's  little  body  standing  between  it  and 
Owen,  it  broke  out  in  the  untamed,  unrelenting  fury  of  flesh 
against  flesh. 

The  sound  of  Owen's  feet  continued,  tramping  the  floor  above 
her.  She  sat  up  and  listened.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that 
she  had  watched  with  him;  that  she  had  kept  still  there  to 
listen  till  all  her  senses  streamed  into  that  one  sense,  and  hearing 
gave  the  thrill  of  touch.  She  had  learned  to  know  his  mood 
by  his  footstep.  She  knew  the  swinging,  rhythmic  tread  that 
beat  out  the  measure  of  his  verse,  the  slow,  lingering  tread  that 
marked  the  procession  of  his  thoughts,  and  the  troubled,  jerking 
tread  that  shook  her  nerves,  that  sent  through  her,  like  an 
agonized  pulse,  the  vibration  of  his  suffering. 

It  shook  her  now.     She  received  and  endured  his  trouble. 

She  had  got  out  of  bed  and  dressed  and  went  up-stairs  to 
Owen's  door,  and  knocked  softly.  She  heard  liim  stride  to  the 
door  with  the  impetus  of  fury;  it  opened  violently,  and  she 
swept  past  him  into  the  room. 

His  mood  softened  at  the  sight  of  her  haggard  face  and 
feverish  eyes.  He  stood  by  the  door,  holding  it  so  that  it  shel- 
tered her  yet  did  not  shut  her  in. 

"  What  is  it,  Nina  ? "  He  was  contemplating  her  with  a 
certain  sad  perplexity,  a  disturbance  that  was  pure  from  all 
embarrassment  or  surprise.  It  was  as  if  he  had  foreseen  that 
she  would   do   this. 

"You're  ill,"  he  said.     "Go  down-stairs;  I'll  come  to  you." 

"  I  'm  not  ill   and   I  'm  not  mad.     Please  shut  that   door." 

He  shut  it. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  " 


THECREATOES  239 

She  smiled  and  sat  down  on  his  bed,  helpless  and  heedless 
of  herself.  Prothero  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  packing-case  and 
gazed  at  her,  still  with  his  air  of  seeing  nothing  at  all  remarkable 
in  her  behaviour. 

Her  eyes  wandered  from  him  and  were  caught  by  the  fan- 
tastic disorder  of  the  room.  On  his  writing-table  a  revolver, 
a  microscope,  and  a  case  of  surgical  instruments  lay  in  a  litter 
of  manuscripts.  A  drawer,  pulled  from  its  chest,  stood  on  end 
by  the  bedside;  the  contents  were  strewn  at  her  feet.  With  a 
pang  of  reminiscence  she  saw  there  the  things  that  he  had  worn, 
the  thin,  shabby  garments  of  his  poverty;  and  among  them  a 
few  new  things  bought  yesterday  for  his  journey.  An  overcoat 
lay  on  the  bed  beside  her.  He  had  not  had  anything  like  that 
before.     She  put  out  her  hand  and  felt  the  stuff. 

"  It  ought  to  have  had  a  fur  lining,"  she  said,  and  began  to 
cry  quietly. 

He  rose  and  came  to  her  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
Her  sobbing  ceased  suddenly.  She  looked  up  at  him  and  was 
still,  under  his  touch. 

"You  don't  want  to  go,"  she  said.     "Why  are  you  going?" 

"  Because  I  have  to.  It 's  the  only  thing,  you  see,  there  is 
to  do." 

"  If  it  was  n't  for  me  you  would  n't  have  to.  If  you  die  out 
there  it  will  be  my  doing." 

"  Won't  it  be  the  proprietors  of  the  '  Morning  Telegraph ' 
who  '11  be  responsible  —  if  I  die  ?  " 

"  I  set  them  on  to  you." 

"  Did  you  ?  I  rather  hoped  they  'd  pitched  on  me  because 
I  was  the  best  man  for  the  job." 

"The  best  man  — to  die?" 

"  War  correspondents  don't  die.  At  least  they  don't  set  out 
with  that  intention." 

"  You  ivill  die,"  she  said  slowly ;  "  because  everything  I  care 
for  does." 

"  Why  care,"  he  said,  "  for  things  that  are  so  bent  on  dying?  " 

"  I  care  —  because  they  die." 

Her  cry  was  the  very  voice  of  mortality  and  mortality's  desire. 


340  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

Having  uttered  it  she  seemed  suddenly  aware  of  what  she  had 
done. 

"  Why  should  n't  I  tell  you  that  I  care  for  you  ?  What  does 
it  matter?     That  ends  it." 

She  rose. 

"  I  know/'  she  said,  "  I  've  broken  all  the  rules.  A  woman 
should  n't  come  and  tell  a  man  she  cares  for  him." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said  simply. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  don't  know  why  not.  I  only  know  that  I  'm 
so  much  more  like  a  man  than  a  woman  that  the  rules  for 
women  don't  apply.  Why  shouldn't  I  tell  you?  You  know 
it  —  as  God  knows  it." 

"  I  know  it  as  a  man  knows  it.     I  told  you  I  'd  been  there." 

"  Owen  —  shall  I  ever  be  where  you  are  now  ?  " 

"  I  had  to  die  first.  I  told  you  my  youth  was  dead.  That, 
Nina,  was  what  you  cared  for." 

It  was  not.  Yet  she  yearned  for  it  —  his  youth  that  was 
made  to  love  her,  his  youth  that  returning,  a  dim  ghost,  fol- 
lowed her  and  loved  her  still. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  n't  only  that." 

She  paused  in  her  going  and  knelt  down  by  his  half-packed 
portmanteau.  With  her  free  left  hand  she  lifted  up,  folded  and 
laid  smooth  the  new  suit  he  had  flung  in  and  crushed.  Her 
back  was  now  towards  him  and  the  door  he  was  about  to  open. 

"  Owen,"  she  said,  "  since  I  'm  breaking  all  the  rules,  why 
can't  I  go  out,  too,  and  look  after  you  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  It 's  not  the  place  for  women,"  he 
said. 

"  Women  ?  Have  n't  I  told  you  that  I  'm  like  a  man  ?  I  'm 
like  you,  Owen,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

He  smiled.     "  If  you  were  like  me,  you  'd  stay  at  home.'" 

"What  should  I   stay  for?" 

"  To  look  after  Laura  Gunning.  That 's  what  you  'd  want  tc 
do,  if  you  were  —  I.  And,"  he  said  quietly,  "  it 's  what  you  'rf 
going  to  do." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  faced  him,  defying  the  will  that  h( 
laid  on  her. 


She  had  ^Tung  it  from  liim,  the  thing  that  six  ilays  ago 
be  had  come  to  her  to  snv 


THE  CEEATORS  24]. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?     And  why  should  I  ?  " 
"  Because  there  's  nothing  else  that  you  can  do  for  me." 
She  had  wrung  it  from  him,  the  thing  that  six  days  ago  he 
had  come  to  her  to  say. 


XXIX 

THAT  was  a  solid,  practical  idea  of  Brodrick's.  All  that 
he  had  heard  of  Owen  Prothero  connected  him  securely 
with  foreign  countries.  By  the  fact  that  he  had  served  in 
South  Africa,  to  say  nothing  of  his  years  in  the  Indian  Medical 
Service,  he  was  pointed  out  as  the  right  man  to  send  to  the 
Russian  army  in  Manchuria ;  add  to  this  the  gift  of  writing 
and  your  War  Correspondent  was  complete.  It  was  further 
obvious  that  Prothero  could  not  possibly  exist  in  England  on 
his  poems. 

At  the  same  time  Brodriek  was  aware  that  he  had  reasons 
for  desiring  to  get  the  long,  ugly  poet  out  of  England  as  soon 
as  possible.  His  length  and  his  ugliness  had  not  deterred  Jane 
Holland  from  taking  a  considerable  interest  in  him.  Brodrick's 
reasons  made  him  feel  extremely  uncomfortable  in  offering  such 
a  dangerous  post  as  War  Correspondent  to  young  Prothero, 
Therefore  when  it  came  to  Prothero's  accepting  it,  he  did  his 
best  to  withdraw  the  offer.  It  was  n't  exactly  an  offer.  He  had 
merely  mentioned  it  as  a  possible  opening,  a  suggestion  in  the 
last  resort.  He  pointed  out  to  Prothero  the  dangers  and  the 
risks,  among  them  damage  to  his  trade  as  a  poet.  Poets  were 
too  precious.     There  were,  he  said,  heaps  of  other  men. 

But  Prothero  had  leaped  at  it;  he  had  implored  Brodriek  not 
to  put  another  man  in ;  and  the  more  he  leaped  and  implored 
the  more  Brodriek  tried  to  keep  him  off  it. 

But  you  could  n't  keep  him  off.  He  was  mad,  apparently, 
with  the  sheer  lust  of  danger.  He  would  go.  "  If  you  do," 
Brodriek  had  said  finally,  "  you  go  at  your  own  risk." 

And  he  had  gone,  leaving  the  editor  profoundly  uncomfort- 
able. Brodriek,  in  these  days,  found  himself  reiterating,  "  He 
would  go,  he  would  go."  And  all  the  time  he  felt  that  he  had 
sent  the  poor  long  poet  to  his  death,  because  of  Jane  Holland. 

242 


THE     CREATORS  243 

He  saw  a  great  deal  of  Jane  Holland  in  the  weeks  that  fol- 
lowed Prothero's   departure. 

They  had  reached  the  first  month  of  autumn,  and  Jane  was  sit- 
ting out  on  the  lawn  in  Brodrick's  garden.  The  slender,  new-born 
body  of  Prothero's  Poems  lay  in  her  lap.  Eddy  Heron  stretched 
himself  at  her  feet.  Winny  hung  over  her  shoulder.  Every  now 
and  then  the  child  swept  back  her  long  hair  that  brushed  Jane's 
face,  in  the  excitement  of  her  efforts  to  see  what,  as  she  phrased 
it,  Mr.  Prothero  had  done.  Opposite  them  Mrs.  Heron  and 
Gertrude  Collett  sat  quietly  sewing. 

Eddy,  who  loved  to  tease  his  mother,  was  talking  about  Jane 
as  if  she  was  n't  there. 

"  I  say.  Mummy,  don't  you  like  her  awfully  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  like  her,"  said  Mrs.  Heron,  smiling  at  her  son. 

"  Why  do  you  like  me  ?  "  said  Jane,  whose  vision  of  Owen 
Prothero  was  again  obscured  by  Winny's  hair. 

"  Why  do  we  like  anybody  ? "  said  Mrs.  Heron,  with  her 
inassailable  reserve. 

"You  can't  get  out  of  it  that  way,  Mum.  You  don't  just 
go  liking  anybody.  You  like  jolly  few.  We  're  an  awful  family 
for  not  liking  people.     Are  n't  we,  Gee-Gee  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  it,"  said  Miss  Collett. 

"  Oh,  but  Gee-Gee  's  thinking  of  Uncle  Hugh,"  said  Winny. 

Miss    Collett's  face  stiffened.     She  was  thinking  of  him. 

"  Uncle  Hugh  ?  W^hy,  he 's  worse  than  any  of  us.  With 
women  —  ladies  —  anyhow." 

"  Eddy,  dear  !  "  said  Eddy's  mother. 

"  Well,  have  you  ever  seen  a  lady  Uncle  Hugh  could  really 
stand  —  except  Miss  Holland  ?  " 

Gertrude  bent  so  low  over  her  work  that  her  face  was  hid- 
den. 

"  I  say !  look  at  that  kid.  Can't  you  take  your  hair  out  of 
Miss  Holland's  face  ?     She  does  n't  want  your  horrid  hair." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Jane.  She  was  grateful  for  the  veil  of 
Winny's  hair. 

They  had  not  arrived  suddenly,  the  five  of  them,  at  this  inti- 
macy.    It  had  developed  during  the  last  fortnight,  which  Jane, 


244  THE     CEEA  TORS 

fulfilling  a  promise,  had  spent  with  Dr.  Brodrick  and  Mrs. 
Heron. 

Jane  had  been  ill,  and  Brodrick  had  brought  her  to  his 
brother's  house  to  recover.  Dr.  Henry  had  been  profoundly 
interested  in  her  case.  So  had  his  sister,  Mrs.  Heron,  and  Mr. 
John  Brodrick  and  Mrs.  John,  and  Sophy  Levine  and  Gertrude 
Collett,  and  Winny  and  Eddy  Heron. 

Since  the  day  when  they  had  first  received  her,  the  Brodricks 
had  established  a  regular  cult  of  Jane  Holland.  It  had  become 
the  prescribed  event  for  Jane  to  spend  every  possible  Sunday 
at  Putney  Heath  with  the  editor  of  the  "  Monthly  Review."  Her 
friendship  with  his  family  had  advanced  from  Sunday  to  Sun- 
day by  slow,  well-ordered  steps.  Jane  had  no  illusions  as  to  its 
foundation.  She  knew  that  Brodrick's  family  had  begun  by 
regarding  her  as  part  of  Brodrick's  property,  the  most  eligible, 
the  most  valuable  part.  It  was  interested  in  contemporary  tal- 
ent merely  as  a  thing  in  which  Brodrick  had  a  stake.  It  had 
hardly  been  aware  of  Jane  Holland  previous  to  her  appearance 
in  the  "  Monthly  Review."  After  that  it  had  been  obliged  to 
recognize  her  as  a  power  propitious  to  the  editor's  ambition  and 
his  dream.  For  though  his  family  regarded  the  editor  of  the 
"  Monthly  Review  "  as  a  dreamer,  a  fantastic  dreamer,  it  was 
glad  to  think  that  a  Brodrick  should  have  ambition,  still  more 
to  think  that  it  could  afford  a  dream.  They  had  always  insisted 
upon  that,  there  being  no  end  to  the  things  a  Brodrick  could 
afford.  They  had  identified  Jane  Holland  with  his  dream  and  his 
ambition,  and  were  glad  again  to  think  that  he  could  afford  her. 
As  for  her  dreadful,  her  conspicuous  celebrity,  the  uncomfortably 
staring  fact  that  she  was  Jane  Holland,  Jane  was  aware  that  it 
struck  them  chiefly  as  reflecting  splendour  upon  Brodrick.  But 
she  was  aware  that  her  unique  merit,  her  supreme  claim,  was 
that  she  had  done  a  great  thing  for  Brodrick.  On  that  account, 
if  she  had  been  the  most  obscure,  the  most  unremarkable  Jane 
Holland,  they  would  have  felt  it  incumbent  on  them  to  cherish 
her.  They  had  incurred  a  grave  personal  obligation,  and  could 
only  meet  it  by  that  grave  personal  thing,  friendship. 


THECEEATOES  345 

How  grave  it  was,  Jane,  who  had  gone  into  it  so  lightly, 
was  only  just  aware.  This  family  had  an  immense  capacity  for 
disapproval ;  it  was  awful,  as  Eddy  had  observed,  for  not  liking 
people.  It  was  bound,  in  its  formidable  integrity,  to  disapprove 
of  her.  She  had  felt  that  she  had  disarmed  its  criticism  only 
by  becoming  ill  and  making  it  sorry  for  her. 

She  had  not  been  a  week  in  Dr.  Brodrick's  house  before  she 
discovered  that  these  kind  people  had  been  sorry  for  her  all 
the  time.  They  were  sorry  for  her  because  she  had  to  work 
hard,  because  she  had  no  home  and  no  family  visible  about  her. 
They  refused  to  regard  Nina  and  Laura  as  a  family,  or  the  flat 
in  Kensington  Square  as  in  any  reasonable  sense  a  home.  Jane 
could  see  that  they  were  trying  to  make  up  to  her  for  the  things 
that  she  had  missed. 

And  in  being  sorry  for  Jane  Holland  they  had  lost  sight  of 
her  celebrity.  They  had  not  referred  to  it  since  the  day,  three 
months  ago,  when  she  had  first  come  to  them,  a  brilliant,  dis- 
tracting alien.  They  were  still  a  little  perturbed  by  the  bril- 
liance and  distraction,  and  it  was  as  an  alien  that  she  moved 
among  them  still. 

It  was  as  an  alien  (she  could  see  it  plainly)  that  they  were 
really  sorry  for  her.  They  seemed  to  agree  with  her  in  regard- 
ing her  genius  as  a  thing  tacked  on  to  her,  a  thing  disastrous, 
undesirable.  They  were  anxious  to  show  her  that  its  presence 
did  not  destroy  for  any  of  them  her  personal  charm.  They 
betrayed  their  opinion  that  her  charm  existed  in  spite  rather 
than  because  of  it. 

Thus,  by  this  shedding  of  her  celebrity,  Jane  in  the  houses 
of  the  Brodricks  had  found  peace.  She  was  secure  from  all  the 
destroyers,  from  the  clever  little  people,  from  everything  that 
carried  with  it  the  dreadful  literary  taint.  Brodrick's  family 
was  divinely  innocent  of  the  literary  taint.  The  worst  that 
could  be  said  of  Brodrick  was  that  he  would  have  liked  to  have 
it ;  but,  under  his  editorial  surface,  he  was  clean. 

It  was  in  Hugh  Brodrick's  house,  that  the  immunity,  the  peace 
was   most   profound.     Hugh   was   not   gregarious.     Tanqueray 


246  THECEEATORS 

could  not  have  more  abhorred  the  social  round.  He  had  come 
near  it,  he  had  told  her,  in  his  anxiety  to  know  her,  but  his 
object  attained,  he  had  instantly  dropped  out  of  it. 

She  knew  where  she  was  with  him.  In  their  long,  subdued 
confidences  he  had  given  her  the  sense  that  she  had  become  the 
dominant  interest,  the  most  important  fact  in  his  social  life. 
And  that,  again,  not  because  of  her  genius,  but,  he  almost  def- 
initely intimated,  because  of  some  mystic  moral  quality  in  her. 
He  did  not  intimate  that  he  found  her  charming.  Jane  had 
still  serious  doubts  as  to  her  charm,  and  Brodrick's  monstrous 
sincerity  would  have  left  her  to  perish  of  her  doubt.  She  would 
not  have  had  him  different.  It  was  because  of  his  moral  qual- 
ity, his  sincerity,  that  she  had  liked  him  from  the  first. 

Most  certainly  she  liked  him.  If  she  had  not  liked  him  she 
would  not  have  come  out  so  often  to  Roehampton  and  Wimble- 
don and  Putney.  She  could  not  help  but  like  him  when  he  so 
liked  her,  and  liked  her,  not  for  the  things  that  she  had  done 
for  literature,  not  for  the  things  she  had  done  for  him,  but  for 
her  own  sake.  That  was  what  she  had  wanted,  to  be  liked  for  her 
own  sake,  to  be  allowed  to  be  a  woman. 

Unlike  Tanqueray,  Brodrick  not  only  allowed  her,  he  positively 
encouraged  her  to  be  a  woman.  Evidently,  in  Brodrick's  opin- 
ion she  was  just  like  any  other  woman.  He  could  see  no  differ- 
ence between  her  and,  well,  Gertrude  Collett.  Gertrude,  Jane 
was  sure,  stood  to  Brodrick  for  all  that  was  most  essentially  and 
admirably  feminine.  Why  he  required  so  much  of  Jane's  pres- 
ence when  he  could  have  Gertrude  Collett's  was  more  than  Jane 
could  understand.  She  was  still  inclined  to  her  conjecture  that 
he  was  using  her  to  draw  Miss  Collett,  playing  her  off  against 
Miss  Collett,  stinging  Miss  Collett  to  the  desired  frenzy  by 
hanging  that  admirable  woman  upon  tenter-hooks.  That  was 
why  Jane  felt  so  safe  with  him ;  because,  she  argued,  he  could  n't 
do  it  if  he  had  not  felt  safe  with  her.  He  was  not  in  love  with 
her.     He  was  not  even,  like  Tanqueray,  in  love  with  her  genius. 

If  she  had  had  the  slightest  doubt  about  his  attitude,  his 
behaviour  on  the  day  of  her  arrival  had  made  it  stand  out  sharp 


THE     CREATORS  247 

and  clear.  She  had  dined  at  Moor  Grange,  and  Caro  Bicker- 
steth  had  been  there.  Caro  had  insisted  on  dragging  Jane's 
genius  from  its  temporary  oblivion,  and  Brodrick  had  turned 
silent  and  sulky,  positively  sulky  then. 

And  in  that  mood  he  had  remained  for  the  two  weeks  that 
she  had  stayed  at  Roehampton.  He  had  betrayed  none  of  the 
concern  so  evidently  felt  for  her  by  Eddy  and  Winny  and  Ger- 
trude Collett  and  Mrs.  Heron  and  the  doctor.  They  had  all 
contended  with  each  other  in  taking  care  of  her,  in  waiting  on 
her  hand  and  foot.  But  Brodrick,  after  bringing  her  there; 
after,  as  she  said,  dumping  her  down,  suddenly  and  heavily,  on 
his  family,  Brodrick  had  refused  to  compete ;  he  had  hung  back ; 
he  had  withdrawn  himself  from  the  scene,  maintaining  his  sin- 
gular sulkiness  and  silence. 

She  forgave  him,  for  of  course  he  was  disturbed  about  Ger- 
trude Collett.  If  he  wanted  to  marry  Gertrude,  why  on  earth 
couldn't  he  marry  her  and  have  done  with  it?  Jane  thought. 

In  order  to  think  better  she  had  closed  her  eyes.  "WTien  she 
opened  them  again  she  found  Brodrick  seated  in  an  opposite 
chair,  quietly  regarding  her.  She  was  alone  with  him.  The 
others   had   all   gone. 

"  I  was  n't  asleep,"  said  Jane. 

"  I  did  n't  suppose  you  were,"  said  Brodrick ;  "  if  you  were 
reading  Prothero." 

Brodrick's  conscience  was  beginning  to  hurt  him  rather  badly. 
There  were  moments  when  he  connected  Jane's  illness  with 
Prothero's  departure.  He,  therefore,  by  sending  Prothero  away, 
was  responsible  for  her  illness. 

"  If  you  want  to  read,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  go." 

"I  don't  want  to  read.     I  want  to  talk." 

"  About  Prothero  ?  " 

"  No,  not  about  Mr.  Prothero.     About  that  serial " 

"  What  serial  ?  " 

"  My  serial.     Your  serial,"  said  she. 

Brodrick  said  he  was  n't  going  to  talk  shop  on  Sunday.  He 
wanted  to  forget  that  there  were  such  things  as  serials. 


348  THE     CREATORS 

"  I  wish  I  could  forget,"  said  she. 

She  checked  the  impulse  that  was  urging  her  to  say,  "  You 
really  ought  to  marry  Gertrude." 

"  I  wish  you  could,"  he  retorted,  with  some  bitterness. 

"How  can  I?"  she  replied  placably,  "when  it  was  the  foun- 
dation of  our  delightful  friendship  ?  " 

Brodrick  said  it  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  their  friend- 
ship. 

"  Well,"  said  Jane,  "  if  it  was  n't  that  it  was  Hambleby." 

At  that  Brodrick  frowned  so  formidably  that  Jane  could  have 
cried  out,  "  For  goodness'  sake  go  and  marry  her  and  leave  off 
venting  your  bad  temper  upon  me." 

"  It  had  to  be  something,"  said  she.  "  "V\Tiy  should  n't  it  be 
Hambleby?  By  the  way,  George  Tanqueray  was  perfectly 
right.  I  was  in  love  with  him.  I  mean,  of  course,  with  Ham- 
bleby." 

"  You  seem,"  said  Brodrick,  "  to  be  in  love  with  him  still, 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out." 

"  That 's  why,"  said  Jane,  "  I  can't  help  feeling  that  there  's 
something  wrong  with  him.  George  says  you  never  really  know 
the  people  you  're  in  love  with." 

There  was  a  gleam  of  interest  now  in  Brodrick's  face.  He 
was  evidently,  Jane  thought,  applying  Tanqueray's  aphorism 
to  Gertrude. 

"  It  does  n't  make  any  difference,"  he  said. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said  she,  "  it  would  have  made 
some." 

"It  doesn't.     If  anything,  you  know  them  rather  better." 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  "  it  makes  that  difference,  does  it  ?  " 

Again  she  thought  of  Gertrude.  "  I  wonder,"  she  said  pen- 
sively, "  if  you  really  know." 

"  At  any  rate  I  know  as  much  as  Tanqueray." 

"  Do  I  bore  you  with  Tanqueray  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  don't  deny  his  genius  ?  " 

"  I  don't  deny  anybody's  genius,"  said  Brodrick  furiously. 

Jane  looked  at  him. 


THE     CEEA  TORS  249 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  nice  of  you,"  said  she,  "  to  talk  that  way 
to  me  when  I  've  been  so  ill." 

"  You  've  no  right  to  be  ill,"  said  Brodrick,  with  undiminished 
rancour. 

"  I  have,"  said  Jane.  "  A  perfect  right.  I  can  be  as  ill 
as  ever  I  please." 

She  looked  at  him  again  and  caught  him  smiling  surrepti- 
tiously under  his  heavy  gloom. 

"  I  mean,"  he  said,  "  you  need  n't  be.  You  would  n't  be  if 
you  did  n't  work  so  hard." 

She  crumpled  her  eyelids  like  one  who  fails  to  see. 

"If  I  didn't  what?" 

"  Work  so  hard." 

He  really  wanted  to  know  whether  it  was  that  or  Prothero. 
First  it  had  been  Tanqueray,  and  she  had  got  over  Tanqueray. 
ISTow  he  could  only  suppose  that  it  was  Prothero.  He  would 
have  to  wait  until  she  had  got  over  Prothero. 

"  I  like  that,"  said  she,  "  when  it 's  your  serial  I  'm  working 
on." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Brodrick,  "that  it's  that?" 

"  I  was  trying  to  tell  you,  but  you  would  n't  let  me  talk  about 
it.  Not  that  I  wanted  to  talk  about  it  when  the  bare  idea  of 
it  terrifies  me.  It 's  awful  to  have  it  hanging  over  me  like 
this." 

"  Forget  it.     Forget  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't.     I  'm  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"  Of  not  being  able  to  finish  it  —  of  letting  you  down." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  intently. 

"That's  why  you've  been  killing  yourself,  is  it?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"I  didn't  know.  I  didn't  think,"  he  said.  "You  should 
have  told  me." 

"  It 's  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have  known.  I  ought  never  to 
have  tried." 

"  Why  did  you  ?  "     His  sulkiness,  his  ferocity,  was  gone  now ; 
he  was  gentleness  itself. 
i6 


250  THE     CREATORS 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  please  you." 

There  was  an  inarticulate  murmur  from  Brodrick,  a  happy 
sound. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  shan't  go  on." 

*'  But  what  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  We  '11  do  something.  There  are  plenty  of  things  that  can 
be  done." 

"  But  —  there  's  the  magazine." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  the  editor,  "  if  the  abominable  thing  goes 
smash." 

"  What  ?     You  can  contemplate  it 's  going  smash  ?  " 

"  I  can't  contemplate  your  being  worried  like  this." 

"  It 's  people  that  worry  me,"  she  said  —  "if  I  only  could 
have  peace ! " 

She  sketched  for  him  as  she  had  sketched  for  Tanqueray  the 
horrors  brought  on  her  by  her  celebrity. 

"  That 's  London,"  he  said,  as  Tanqueray  had  said.  "  You 
should  live  out  of  it." 

"  Nothing  comes  to  me  in  the  country." 

He  pondered  a  long  time  upon  that  saying. 

"  You  would  n't  call  this  country,  would  you  ?  "  he  said  at 
last, 

"  Oh  dear  me,  no." 

"Well  —  what  would  you  think  of  Putney  or  Wimbledon  as 
a  compromise  ?  " 

"  There  can't  be  any  compromise." 

"  Why  not  ?     It 's  what  we  all  have  to  come  to." 

"  Not  I.  I  can  only  write  if  I  'm  boxed  up  in  my  funny  little 
square,  with  the  ash-trees  weeping  away  in  the  middle." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Brodrick,  "  that  they  weep." 

"  You  think  it 's  so  terrible  ?  " 

"  Quite  terrible." 

She  laughed.  "  Do  you  remember  how  you  came  to  see  me 
there?" 

"  Yes.  And  how  you  took  me  for  the  man  come  to  tune  the 
piano." 

He  smiled,  remembering  it.     A  bell  rang,  summoning  them, 


THECEEATOES  251 

and  he  took  no  notice.  He  smiled  again;  and  suddenly  a  great 
shyness  and  a  terror  overcame  her. 

"  Don't  you  really  think,"  said  he,  "  that  this  sort  of  thing 
is  nicer  ?  " 

"  Oh,  incomparably  nicer.     But  is  n't  it  getting  rather  cold  ?  " 

His  face  darkened.     "  Do  you  want  to  go  in  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

They  rose  and  went  together  into  the  house. 

In  the  hall,  through  the  open  door  of  the  drawing-room,  she 
could  see  the  table  laid  for  tea,  and  Gertrude  sitting  at  it  by 
herself,  waiting  for  them.  His  sister  and  the  children  had 
gone.  Somehow  she  knew  that  he  had  made  them  go.  They 
would  come  back,  he  explained,  with  the  carriage  that  was  to 
take  her  to  the  station,  and  they  would  say  good-bye  to  her 
before  she  went. 

He  evaded  the  drawing-room  door  and  led  the  way  into  his 
library;  and  she  knew  that  he  meant  to  have  the  last  hour 
with  her  alone. 

She  paused  on  the  threshold.  She  knew  that  if  she  followed 
him  she  would  never  get  away. 

"  Are  n't  we  going,"  said  she,  "  to  have  tea  with  Miss  Col- 
lett?" 

"  Would  you  rather  ?  " 

"  Much  rather,"  said  she. 

"  Very  well,  just  as  you  like,"  he  said  stiffly. 

He  was  annoyed  again.  All  through  tea-time  he  sulked, 
while  Jane  sustained  a  difficult  conversation  with  Miss  Collett. 

Miss  Collett  had  lost  much  of  her  beautiful  serenity.  She 
was  still  a  charming  hostess,  but  there  was  a  palpable  effort  about 
her  charm.  She  looked  as  if  she  were  beginning  to  suffer  from 
the  strain  of  Brodrick  in  his  present  mood. 

What  Brodrick's  mood  was,  or  was  beginning  to  be,  Jane 
could  no  longer  profess  to  be  unaware.  While  she  talked  thin 
talk  to  Gertrude  about  the  superiority  of  Putney  Heath  to  Wim- 
bledon Park,  and  of  Brodrick's  bouse  to  the  houses  of  the  other 
Brodricks,  she  was  thinking,  "  This  woman  was  happy  in  his 
house  before  I  came.     He  would  have  been  happy  with  her  if 


252  THECEEATORS 

I  had  n't  come.  It  would  be  kinder  of  me  if  I  were  to  keep  out 
of  it,  and  let  her  have  her  chance." 

And  when  she  had  said  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Heron  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  found  herself  in  the  doctor's  brougham,  shut  up  all 
alone  with  Brodrick,  she  said  to  herself  that  it  was  for  the  last 
time.  When  she  let  him  take  her  back  to  Kensington  Square, 
when  she  let  him  sit  with  her  there  for  ten  minutes  in  the  half- 
darkness,  she  said  to  herself  that  it  was  for  the  last  time. 
And  when  he  rose  suddenly,  almost  violently,  for  departure,  she 
knew  it  was  for  the  last  time. 

"  It  was  good  of  you,"  she  said,  "  to  bring  me  home." 

"  Do  you  call  this  a  home  ?  "  said  Brodrick. 

"Why  not?     It 's  all  I  want." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  he  said  savagely,  and  left  her. 

He  was  intensely  disagreeable;  but  that  also,  she  told  herself, 
was  for  the  last  time. 

As  long  as  Brodrick  was  there  she  could  listen  to  the  voice 
inside  her,  murmuring  incessantly  of  last  times,  and  ordering 
her  to  keep  out  of  it  and  let  the  poor  woman  have  her  chance. 

But  when  he  was  gone  another  voice,  that  was  there  too,  told 
her  that  she  could  not  keep  out  of  it.  She  was  being  drawn  in 
again,  into  the  toils  of  life.  When  it  had  seemed  to  her  that 
she  drew,  she  was  being  drawn.  She  was  drawn  by  all  the 
things  that  she  had  cut  herself  off  from,  by  holding  hands,  and 
searching  eyes,  and  unforgotten  tendernesses.  In  the  half-dark- 
ness of  her  room  the  faces  she  had  been  living  with  were  all  about 
her.  She  felt  again  the  brushing  of  Winny's  hair  over  her  cheek. 
She  heard  Winny's  mother  saying  that  she  liked  her.  She  saw 
Brodrick  sitting  opposite  her,  and  the  look  with  which  he  had 
watched  her  when  he  thought  she  was  asleep. 

And  when  the  inward  admonitory  voice  reiterated,  "  Don't  be 
drawn,"  the  other  answered,  "  Whether  I  'm  out  of  it  or  in  it  the 
poor  woman  has  n't  got  a  chance." 


XXX 

IT  had  not  occurred  to  Gertrude  that  she  had  a  chance.  To 
have  calculated  chances  would  have  seemed  to  her  the  last 
profanity,  so  consecrated  was  her  attitude  to  Brodrick  and  to  all 
that  was  Brodrick's.  Her  chance  was,  and  it  always  had  been, 
the  chance  of  serving  him.  She  had  it.  What  more,  she  said 
to  herself,  could  a  woman  want? 

The  peace  she  had  folded  round  Brodrick  wrapped  her  too. 
In  the  quiet  hours,  measured  by  the  silver-chiming  clock,  noth- 
ing had  happened  to  disturb  her  beautiful  serenity.  It  was  by 
the  cultivation  of  a  beautiful  serenity  that  she  had  hoped  to 
strengthen  her  appeal  to  Brodrick  and  her  position  in  his  house. 
In  the  beginning  that  position  had  been  so  fragile  and  infirm 
that  she  had  had  then  no  trust  in  its  continuance.  Three  years 
ago  she  had  come  to  him,  understanding  that  she  was  not  to  stay. 
She  was  a  far  removed,  impoverished  cousin  of  Mrs.  John  Brod- 
rick's. Hence  her  claim.  They  had  stretched  the  point  of 
cousinship  to  shelter  the  proprieties  so  sacred  to  every  Brodrick. 
He  had  not  wanted  her.  He  preferred  a  housekeeper  who  was 
not  a  lady,  who  would  not  have  to  be,  as  he  expressed  it,  all 
over  the  place.  But  he  was  sorry  for  the  impoverished  lady 
and  he  had  let  her  come.  Then  his  sister  Sophy  had  urged  him 
to  keep  her  on  until  he  married.  Sophy  meant  until  he  mar- 
ried the  lady  she  intended  him  to  marry.  He  had  not  married 
that  lady  nor  any  other;  he  was  not  going  to  marry  at  all,  he 
told  them.     But  he  had  kept  Gertrude  on. 

He  had  said  at  the  time  that  he  did  n't  think  she  would  do, 
but  he  would  try  her.  He  regarded  Gertrude  with  the  suspicion 
a  Brodrick  invariably  entertained  for  any  idea  that  was  not  con- 
spicuously his  own.  But  Gertrude  had  managed,  with  consid- 
erable adroitness,  to  convince  him  that  she  was,  after  all,  his 

253 


354  THECEEATORS 

own  idea.  And  when  Sophy  Levine  triumphed,  as  a  Brodrick 
invariably  did  triumph,  in  the  proved  perfection  of  her  scheme, 
he  said,  Yes,  Miss  Collett  was  all  right,  now  that  he  had  trained 
her.  If  he  approved  of  Miss  Collett  it  was  because  she  was  no 
longer  recognizable  as  the  Miss  Collett  they  had  so  preposterously 
thrust  on  him.     He  could  not  have  stood  her  if  she  had  been. 

Brodrick  was  right.  Gertrude  was  not  the  same  woman. 
She  did  not  even  look  the  same.  She  had  come  to  Moor  Grange 
lean,  scared,  utterly  pathetic,  with  a  mouth  that  drooped.  So 
starved  of  all  delight  and  of  all  possession  was  Gertrude  that  she 
flushed  with  pleasure  when  she  heard  that  she  was  to  have  for 
her  very  own  the  little  north  room  where  the  telephone  was  now. 
There  was  such  pathos  in  her  meek  withdrawal  into  that  little 
north  room,  that  Brodrick  had  n't  the  heart  to  keep  her  in  it. 
The  drawing-room,  he  had  intimated,  also  might  be  hers,  when 
(it  was  understood  rather  than  stated)  he  was  n't  there  himself. 

By  that  time  he  no  longer  objected  to  Gertrude's  being  all 
over  the  place.  Brodrick,  though  he  did  not  know  it  and  his 
sisters  did,  was  the  sort  of  man  who  could  not  be  happy  without 
a  woman  to  look  after  him.  Silently,  almost  furtively,  Gertrude 
made  herself  indispensable  to  him.  She  knew  what  he  wanted 
before  he  knew  it  himself,  and  was  on  the  spot  to  supply  it. 
Thus,  watching  the  awful  increase  of  Brodrick's  correspondence, 
as  the  editor  grew  great,  she  was  prepared  for  the  coming  of  a 
secretary  and  had  forestalled  it. 

She  had  kept  herself  prepared  for  the  coming  of  a  wife,  a 
mistress  of  Brodrick's  house,  and  by  making  Brodrick  supremely 
comfortable  she  had  managed  to  forestall  that  too.  His  sec- 
retary had  become  the  companion  that  his  housekeeper  could  not 
hope  to  be.  Hitherto  he  had  kept  Gertrude  Collett  out  of  his 
library  as  far  as  possible.  Now  her  intrusion  had  the  conse- 
cration of  business,  and  it  was  even  permissible  for  Gertrude  to 
spend  long  hours  with  him  in  the  sanctuary.  Brodrick  invariably 
breakfasted  alone.  This  habit  and  his  deadly  and  perpetual 
dining  out,  liad  been  a  barrier  to  all  intimacy.  But  now  a  large 
part  of  his  work  on  the  "  Monthly  Review  "  could  be  done  at 
home  in  the  evenings,  so  that  the  editor  had  less  time  for  dining 


THECEEATORS  255 

out.  And  latterly  he  had  taken  to  coming  home  early  in  the 
afternoons,  when  he  rather  liked  to  have  Gertrude  in  the  draw- 
ing-room pouring  out  tea  for  him.  She  filled  the  place  of  some- 
thing that  he  missed,  that  he  was  as  yet  hardly  aware  of  missing. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  got  used  to  Gertrude. 

He  could  not  think  what  life  would  be  like  without  Gertrude, 
any  more  than  he  could  think  what  it  would  be  like  with  her 
in  a  closer  and  more  intimate  relation.  For  none  of  them  had 
ever  suggested  that  he  should  marry  Gertrude.  No  Brodrick 
would  have  dreamed  of  marrying  his  housekeeper.  Gertrude 
would  not  have  dreamed  of  it  herself. 

And  yet  she  dreamed.  But  her  dream  was  of  continuance 
in  the  silent,  veiled  adventure,  the  mystery  and  religion  of  her 
service.  Service  to  Brodrick,  perpetual,  unwearying  service,  con- 
stituted to  her  mind  the  perfect  tie.  It  was  the  purity  of  it  that 
she  counted  as  perfection.  She  desired  nothing  further  than  her 
present  surrender  to  the  incorruptible,  inassailable  passion  of 
service.  Whenever,  in  her  dream,  she  touched  the  perilous  edges 
of  devotion,  Gertrude  had  pulled  herself  back.  She  had  told  her- 
self that  she  was  there  for  nothing  in  the  world  but  to  save  Brod- 
rick, to  save  him  trouble,  to  save  him  worry,  to  save  him  expense ; 
to  save  and  save  and  save.  That  was  really  what  it  came  to 
when  she  saved  him  from  having  to  keep  a  secretary. 

For  Gertrude  lived  and  moved  and  had  her  sentimental  being 
in  Brodrick.  Thus  she  had  laboured  at  her  own  destruction.  So 
preoccupied  was  she  with  the  thought  of  Brodrick  that  her  trouble, 
travelling  along  secret  paths  of  the  nerves  and  brain,  had  subtly, 
insensibly  communicated  itself  to  him.  He  grew  restless  in  that 
atmosphere  of  unrest.  If  Gertrude  could  have  kept,  inwardly, 
her  visible  beautiful  serenity,  Brodrick,  beguiled  by  the  peace 
she  wrapped  him  in,  might  have  remained  indefinitely  quiescent. 
But  he  had  become  the  centre  of  a  hundred  influences,  wandering 
spirits  of  Gertrude's  brain.  Irresistibly  urging,  intangibly  irri- 
tating, perpetually  suggesting,  they  had  prepared  him  for  the 
dominion  of  Jane  Holland.  But  Gertrude  was  not  aware  of  this. 
Her  state,  which  had  begun  within  a  few  months  of  her  arrival, 
remained  for  three  years  a  secret  to  herself.     She  was  before  all 


256  THECEEATORS 

things  a  sentimentalist,  and  she  had  the  sentimentalist's  mon- 
strous innocence  and  boundless  capacity  for  illusion.  She  shud- 
dered in  the  grip  of  mortal  renunciation,  and  called  her  state 
holy,  when  adoration  and  desire  were  fused  in  a  burning  beati- 
tude at  the  approach  of  Brodrick.  In  her  three  years'  inno- 
cence she  continued  unaware  that  her  emotions  had  any  root  in 
flesh  and  blood ;  and  Brodrick  was  not  the  man  to  enlighten  her. 
His  attitude  was  such  as  to  nourish  and  perpetuate  her  beautiful 
serenity. 

It  was  with  the  coming  of  Jane  Holland  that  disturbance  had 
begun;  a  trouble  so  mysterious  and  profound  that,  if  her  con- 
science probed  it,  the  seat  of  it  remained  hidden  from  the  probe. 
She  thought,  in  her  innocence,  that  she  was  going  to  have  an 
illness ;  but  it  had  not  struck  her  that  her  symptoms  were  aggra- 
vated by  Miss  Holland's  presence  and  became  intense  to  excru- 
ciation in  those  hours  when  she  knew  that  Brodrick  and  Miss 
Holland  were  off  together  somewhere,  and  alone.  She  sickened 
at  the  thought,  and  was  unaware  that  she  was  sick.  This  uncon- 
sciousness of  hers  was  fostered  by  all  the  conventions  of  her 
world,  a  world  that  veils  itself  decorously  in  the  presence  of  the 
unveiled;  and  she  was  further  helped  by  her  own  anxiety  to 
preserve  the  perfect  attitude,  to  do  the  perfect  thing. 

She  was  not  even  aware  that  she  disliked  Miss  Holland.  What 
she  felt  was  rather  a  nameless,  inexplicable  fascination,  a  charm 
that  fed  morbidly  on  Jane's  presence,  and,  in  its  strange  work- 
ings, afflicted  her  with  a  perversion  of  interest  and  desire  in  all 
that  concerned  Miss  Holland.  Thus  she  found  herself  positively 
looking  forward  to  Miss  Holland's  coming,  actually  absorbed 
in  thinking  of  her,  wondering  where  she  was,  and  what  she  was 
doing  wlien  she  was  not  there. 

It  ended  in  wonder;  for  Brodrick  was  the  only  person  who 
could  have  informed  her,  and  he  had  grown  curiously  reticent  on 
the  subject  of  Jane  Holland.  He  would  say  that  she  was  coming, 
or  that  she  was  not  coming,  on  such  or  such  a  day.  That  was 
all.  Her  coming  on  some  day  or  the  other  was  a  thing  that 
Gertrude  had  now  to  take  for  granted.     She  tried  to  discuss  it 


THECEEATORS  257 

eagerly  with  Brodrick;  she  dwelt  on  it  with  almost  affectionate 
solicitude;  you  would  have  said  that  Brodrick  could  not  have 
desired  it  more  than  she  did. 

In  the  last  two  weeks  Gertrude  found  something  ominous  in 
Brodrick's  silence  and  sulkiness.  And  on  this  Sunday,  the  day 
of  Jane's  departure,  she  was  no  longer  able  to  ignore  their  sig- 
nificance. Very  soon  he  would  come  to  her  and  tell  her  that 
he  did  not  want  her ;  that  she  must  go  ;  that  she  must  make  room 
for  Miss  Holland. 

That  night,  after  Brodrick  had  returned  from  taking  Jane 
Holland  home,  his  secretary  came  to  him  in  the  library.  She 
found  him  standing  by  the  writing-table,  looking  intently  at 
something  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  something  which,  as  Ger- 
trude appeared  to  him,  he  thrust  hastily  into  a  drawer. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Certainly." 

He  turned,  patient  and  polite,  prepared  to  deal,  as  he  had 
dealt  before,  with  some  illusory  embarrassment  of  Gertrude's. 

"  You  are  not  pleased  with  me,"  she  said,  forcing  the  naked 
statement  through  hard  lips  straight  drawn. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Your  manner  has  been  different." 

"Then  what  you  mean  is  that  you  are  not  pleased  with  my 
manner.     My  manner  is  unfortunate." 

He  was  almost  oppressively  patient  and  polite. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  she  said,  "  for  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     Unless  you  want  to." 

"  I  don't  say  that  I  want  to.     I  say  it  might  be  better." 

Still,  with  laborious,  weary  patience,  he  protested.  He  was 
entirely,  absolutely  satisfied.  He  had  never  dreamed  of  her 
going.  The  idea  was  preposterous,  and  it  was  her  own  idea, 
not  his. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  with  eyes  prepared  to  draw  truth 
from  him  by  torture. 

"  x\nd  there  is  no  reason  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  can  think  of  no 
reason  why  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  go  ?  " 


258  THECEEATOES 

He  hesitated  a  perceptible  instant  before  he  answered  her. 

"  There  is  no  reason,"  he  said ;  and  having  said  it,  he  left 
the  room. 

He  had  paused  to  gather  patience  in  exasperation.  Gertrude 
interpreted  the  pause  as  the  impressive  stop  before  the  final, 
irrevocable  decision;  a  decision  favourable  to  her  continuance. 

She  was  not  appeased  by  it.  Her  anxiety  rather  had  taken 
shape,  resolving  itself  into  a  dreadful  suspicion  as  to  the  rela- 
tions between  Brodrick  and  Miss  Holland. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  marrying  Miss  Holland.  But  there 
was  something  between  them,  something  which  by  no  means 
necessitated  her  own  departure,  which  indeed  rendered  super- 
fluous any  change  in  the  arrangements  she  had  made  so  perfect. 
It  was  not  likely  that  Brodrick,  at  his  age,  should  desire  to 
change  them.  He  might  be  in  love  with  Jane  Holland.  He 
was  wedded  to  order  and  tranquillity  and  peace.  And  she  never 
would  be.  There  was  wild,  queer  blood  in  her.  Her  writings 
proved  her  lawless,  defiant,  contemptuous  of  propriety.  She 
had,  no  doubt,  claimed  the  right  of  genius  to  make  its  own  rules. 

Gertrude's  brain,  which  had  been  passive  to  the  situation,  now 
worked  with  uncontrolled  activity.  She  found  herself  arguing 
it  out.  If  it  were  so,  whatever  was,  or  had  been,  or  would  be 
between  them,  it  was  transitory.  It  would  run  its  course  and 
period,  and  she  would  remain,  and  he  would  return  to  her.  She 
had  only  to  wait  and  serve ;  to  serve  and  wait.  It  seemed  to  her 
then  that  her  passion  rose  above  theirs,  white  with  renunciation, 
a  winged  prayer,  a  bloodless,  bodiless  longing,  subtler  than  desire. 
Bounding  a  poignant  spiritual  cry. 

And  all  the  time  she  knew  that  her  suspicion  was  not  justified. 
Jane  Holland  was  honest;  and  as  for  him,  she  was  not  even  sure 
that  he  cared  for  her. 

Every  instinct  in  her  was  now  subdued  to  the  craving  to  be 
sure,  to  know  how  far  the  two  were  going  or  had  gone.  What- 
ever was  between  them,  it  was  something  that  Brodrick  desired 
to  conceal,  to  thrust  out  of  her  sight,  as  he  had  thrust  the  thing 
he  had  held  in  his  hand. 

Up-stairs  overhead,  she  heard  the  door  of  his  room  opening  and 


THECEEATORS  259 

shutting.  She  saw  the  light  from  his  windows  lengthening  on 
the  gravel  path  outside.     He  was  not  coming  back. 

She  opened  the  drawer  where  she  divined  that  it  lurked  hid- 
den, the  thing  that  was  the  sign  and  symbol  of  their  secret. 
She  found  lying  there,  face  downwards,  a  portrait  of  Jane  Hol- 
land, a  photograph  of  the  painting  by  Gisborne.  She  took  it 
in  her  hand  and  looked  at  the  queer,  half-plain,  half-beautiful, 
wholly  fascinating  face ;  and  it  was  as  if  she  looked  for  the  first 
time  on  the  face  of  her  own  passion,  dully,  stupidly,  not  knowing 
it  for  the  thing  it  was.  She  had  a  sudden  vision  of  their  passion, 
Jane's  and  Brodrick's,  as  it  would  be;  she  saw  the  transitory, 
incarnate  thing,  flushed  in  the  splendour  of  its  moment,  trium- 
phant, exultant  and  alive. 

She  laid  the  portrait  in  its  drawer  again,  face  downwards, 
and  turned  from  it.  And  for  a  moment  she  stood  there,  clutch- 
ing her  breasts  with  her  hands,  so  that  she  hurt  them,  giving 
pain  for  intolerable  pain. 


XXXI 

Now  that  the  thing  she  was  afraid  of  had  become  a  fact, 
she  told  herself  that  she  might  have  known,  that  she  had 
known  it  all  the  time.  As  she  faced  it  she  realized  how  terribly 
afraid  she  had  been.  She  had  had  foreknowledge  of  it  from  the 
moment  when  Jane  Holland  came  first  into  Brodrick's  house. 

She  maintained  her  policy  of  silence.  It  helped  her,  as  if 
she  felt  that,  by  ignoring  this  thing,  by  refusing  to  talk  about 
it,  by  not  admitting  that  anything  so  preposterous  could  be,  it 
did  somehow  cease  to  be. 

She  would  have  been  glad  if  Brodrick's  family  could  have 
remained  unaware  of  the  situation.  But  Brodrick's  family,  by 
the  sheer  instinct  of  self-preservation,  was  awake  to  everything 
that  concerned  it. 

Every  Brodrick,  once  he  had  passed  the  privileged  years  of 
his  minority,  knew  that  grave  things  were  expected  of  him.  It 
was  expected  of  him,  first  of  all,  that  he  should  marry ;  and  that, 
not  with  the  levity  of  infatuation,  but  soberly  and  seriously,  for 
the  good  and  for  the  preservation  of  the  race  of  Brodricks  in  its 
perfection.  As  it  happened,  in  the  present  generation  of  Brod- 
ricks, not  one  of  them  had  done  what  was  expected  of  them, 
except  Sophy.  John  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  fragile,  distin- 
guished lady,  and  had  incontinently  married  her;  and  she  had 
borne  him  no  children.  Henry,  who  should  have  known  better, 
had  fallen  in  love  with  a  lady  so  excessively  fragile  that  she 
had  died  before  he  could  marry  her  at  all.  And  because  of  his 
love  for  her  he  had  remained  unmarried.  Frances  had  set  her 
heart  on  a  rascal  who  had  left  her  for  the  governess.  And  now 
Hugh,  with  his  Jane  Holland,  bid  fair  to  be  similarly  perverse. 

For  every  Brodrick  took,  not  delight,  so  much  as  a  serious  and 
sober  satisfaction,  in  the  thought  that  he  disappointed  expecta- 
tion.    Each  one  believed  himself  the  creature  of  a  solitary  and 

260 


THECSEATORS  261 

majestic  law.  His  actions  defied  prediction.  He  felt  it  as  an 
impertinence  that  anybody,  even  a  Brodrick,  should  presume  to 
conjecture  how  a  Brodrick  would,  in  any  given  circumstances, 
behave.  He  held  it  a  special  prerogative  of  Brodricks,  this 
capacity  for  accomplishing  the  unforeseen.  Nobody  was  sur- 
prised when  the  unforeseen  happened;  for  this  family  made  it 
a  point  of  honour  never  to  be  surprised.  The  performances  of 
other  people,  however  astounding,  however  eccentric,  appeared  to 
a  Brodrick  as  the  facilely  calculable  working  of  a  law  from 
which  a  Brodrick  was  exempt.  Whatever  another  person  did,  it 
was  always  what  some  Brodrick  had  expected  him  to  do.  Even 
when  Frances's  husband  ran  away  with  the  governess  and  broke 
the  heart  Frances  had  set  on  him,  it  was  only  what  John  and 
Henry  and  Sophy  and  Hugh  had  known  would  happen  if  she 
married  him.  If  it  had  n't  happened  to  a  Brodrick,  they  would 
hardly  have  blamed  Heron  for  his  iniquity;  it  was  so  inherent 
in  him  and  predestined. 

So,  when  it  seemed  likely  that  Hugh  would  marry  Jane  Hol- 
land, the  Brodricks  were  careful  to  conceal  from  each  other  that 
they  were  unprepared  for  this  event.  They. discussed  it  casually, 
and  with  less  emotion  than  they  had  given  to  the  wild  project 
of  the  magazine. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening  at  the  John  Brodricks',  shortly 
after  Jane  had  left  Putney. 

"  It  strikes  me,"  said  John  who  began  it,  "  that  one  way  or 
another  Hugh  is  seeing  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Holland." 

"  My  dear  John,  why  should  n't  he  ?  "  said  Frances  Heron. 

"  I  'm  not  saying  that  he  should  n't.  I  'm  saying  that  one 
way  or  another,  he  does." 

"  He  has  to  see  her  on  business,"  said  Frances. 

"  Does  he  see  her  on  business  ?  "  inquired  John. 

"  He  says  he  does,"  said  Frances. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  he  'd  say  he  did." 

"  Why,"  said  Sophy,  "  does  he  say  anything  at  all  ?  That 's 
the  suspicious  circumstance,  to  my  mind." 

"He's  evidently  aware,"  said  the  Doctor,  "that  something 
wants  explaining." 


262  THECKEATOES 

"  So  it  does/'  said  Sophy ;  "  when  Hugh  takes  to  seeing  any 
woman  more  than  once  in  five  months." 

"  But  she 's  the  last  woman  he  'd  thinly  of,"  said  Prances. 

"  It 's  the  last  woman  a  man  thinks  of  that  he  generally  ends 
by  marrying,"  said  John. 

"  If  he  'd  only  think  of  her,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  he  'd  be  safe 
enough." 

"  I  know.  It 's  his  not  thinking,"  said  John ;  "  it 's  his  dash- 
ing into  it  with  his  eyes  shut." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Frances,  "  we  'd  better  open  his  eyes  ?  " 

"  If  you  do  that,"  said  Levine,  "  he  '11  marry  her  to-mor- 
row." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  much  better  encourage  him,  give 
him  his  head." 

"  And  fling  her  at  it?  "  suggested  Sophy. 

"  Well,  certainly,  if  we  don't  want  it  to  happen,  we  'd  better 
assume  that  it  will  happen." 

"  Supposing,"  said  Frances  presently,  "  it  did  happen  —  what 
then?" 

"  My  dear  Frances,  it  would  be  most  undesirable,"  said  John. 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Levine,  "  let  us  take  the  worst  for 
granted.     Then  possibly  he  '11  think  better  of  it." 

The  family,  therefore,  adopted  its  characteristic  policy  of 
assuming  Hugh's  intentions  to  be  obvious,  of  refusing  to  be  sur- 
prised or  even  greatly  interested. 

Only  the  Doctor,  watching  quietly,  waited  for  his  moment.  It 
came  the  next  evening  when  he  dropped  in  to  dine  with  Hugh. 
He  turned  the  conversation  upon  Jane  Holland,  upon  her  illness, 
upon  its  cause  and  her  recovery. 

"  I  should  n't  be  surprised,"  said  he,  "  if  some  time  or  other 
she  was  to  have  a  bad  nervous  break-down." 

Hugh  laughed.  "  My  dear  Henry,  you  would  n't  be  surprised 
if  everybody  had  a  bad  nervous  break-down.  It 's  what  you  're 
always  expecting  them  to  have." 

Henry  said  he  did  expect  it  in  women  of  Miss  Holland's 
physique,   who   habitually   over-drive  their   brains   beyond   the 


THECEEATORS  263 

power  of  their  body.     He  became  excessively  professional  as  he 
delivered  himself  on  this  head. 

It  was  his  subject.  He  was  permitted  to  enlarge  upon  it  from 
time  to  time,  and  Hugh  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  at  his 
entering  on  it  now.  It  was  what  he  had  expected  of  Henry, 
and  he  said  so, 

Henry  looked  steadily  at  his  brother. 

"I  have  had  her,"  said  he,  "under  very  close  observation." 

"  So  have  I,"  said  Hugh.  "  You  forget  that  she  is  an  excep- 
tional woman." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  think  her  so  very  exceptional  as  to  be 
quite  abnormal.     Geniuses  generally  are." 

"  I  don't  know.  For  a  Avoman  to  live  absolutely  alone,  as  she 
does,  and  thrive  on  it,  and  turn  out  the  work  she  does  —  It 's  a 
pretty  fair  test  of  sanity." 

"  That  she  should  have  chosen  to  do  so  is  itself  abnormal." 

"  It 's  not  a  joyous  or  a  desirable  life  for  her,  if  that 's  what 
you  mean,"  said  Hugh. 

But  that  was  not  what  the  Doctor  meant,  and  he  judged  it 
discreet  to  drop  the  discussion  at  that  point. 

And,  as  for  several  weeks  he  saw  and  heard  no  more  of  Miss 
Holland,  he  judged  that  Hugh  had  begun  to  think,  and  that  he 
had  thought  better  of  it. 

For  the  Doctor  knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  When  a 
Brodrick  meant  to  marry,  he  did  not  lose  his  head  about  a 
woman,  he  married  sanely,  soberly  and  decorously,  for  the  sake 
of  children.  It  was  so  that  their  father  had  married.  It  was  so 
that  John  —  well,  John  had  been  a  little  unfortunate.  It  was 
so  that  he,  the  Doctor 

He  stopped  short  in  his  reflections,  remembering  how  it  was 
that  he  had  remained  unmarried.  Like  every  other  Brodrick 
he  had  reserved  for  himself  the  privilege  of  the  unexpected  line. 


XXXII 

EYEEY  year,  about  the  middle  of  August,  Brodrick's  family 
dispersed  for  the  summer  holidays.  Every  year,  about  the 
middle  of  September,  its  return  was  celebrated  at  a  garden- 
party  given  by  the  Levines. 

Brodrick's  brother-in-law  lived  with  an  extreme  simplicity  in 
one  of  those  square  white  houses  in  St.  John's  Wood,  houses 
secluded  behind  high,  mysterious  walls,  where  you  entered,  as 
by  secret,  through  a  narrow  door. 

The  party  had  streamed  through  this  door,  over  the  flagged 
path  and  through  the  house,  into  the  small,  dark,  green  garden 
at  the  back,  a  garden  that  seemed  to  guard,  like  the  house,  its 
secret  and  its  mystery.  There,  on  this  yearly  festival,  you  were 
certain  to  find  all  the  Brodricks,  packed  rather  tight  among  a 
crowd  of  Levines  and  their  collaterals  from  Fitzjohn's  Avenue,  a 
crowd  of  very  dark,  very  large-eyed,  very  curly-haired  persons, 
persons  attired  with  sobriety,  almost  with  austerity,  by  way  of 
protest  against  the  notorious  excesses  of  their  race. 

And  w4th  them  there  was  always,  on  this  occasion,  a  troop 
of  little  boys  and  girls,  dark,  solemn-eyed  little  boys  and  girls, 
with  incredibly  curly  hair,  and  strange,  unchildlike  noses. 

Moving  restlessly  among  them,  or  grouped  apart,  you  came 
upon  friends  of  the  Brodricks  and  Levines,  and  here  and  there 
a  few  journalists,  conspicuously  tired  young  men  who  toiled 
nocturnally  on  the  "  Morning  Telegraph." 

This  year  it  was  understood  that  the  party  would  be  brilliant. 
The  young  men  turned  up  in  large  numbers  and  endeavoured  to 
look  for  the  occasion  a  little  less  tired  than  they  were.  All  the 
great  writers  on  the  "  Monthly  Review  "  had  been  invited  and 
many  of  them  came. 

Caro  Bickerstcth  was  there ;  she  came  early,  and  Sophy  Levine, 
in  a  discreet  aside,  implored  her  to  give  her  a  hand  with  the 

264 


THECEEATOKS  265 

authors.  Authors,  Sophy  intimated,  were  too  much  for  her,  and 
there  would  be  a  lot  of  them.  There  was  Miss  Lempriere  and 
Miss  Gunning,  and  Jane  Holland,  of  course 

"  Of  course,"  said  Care,  twinkling. 

"And  Mr.  Tanqueray." 

At  that  name  Care  raised  her  eyebrows  and  remarked  that 
Sophy  was  a  lucky  lady  to  get  Him,  for  He  never  went  any- 
where. Then  Caro  became  abstracted,  wondering  why  George 
Tanqueray  was  coming,  and  to  this  particular  show. 

"  Will  his  wife  be  here?  "  she  inquired. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Sophy,  "I  never  asked  her.  You  don't 
somehow  think  of  him  as  married." 

"  I  doubt,"  said  Caro,  "  if  he  thinks  so  of  himself.  There 
never  was  a  man  who  looked  it  less." 

Most  singularly  unattached  he  looked,  as  he  stood  there,  beside 
Nina  Lempriere  and  Laura  Gunning,  drawn  to  them,  but  taking 
hardly  more  notice  of  them  than  of  any  Brodrick  or  Levine.  He 
was  watching  Jinny  as  she  moved  about  in  the  party.  She  had 
arrived  somewhat  conspicuously,  attended  by  Brodrick,  by  Winny 
Heron  and  by  Eddy,  with  the  two  elder  little  Levines  clinging  to 
her  gown. 

Jane  was  aware  that  Nina  and  Laura  were  observing  her ;  she 
was  aware  of  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  their  concentration.  Then 
she  knew  that  Tanqueray  was  there,  too,  that  he  was  watching 
her,  that  his  eyes  never  left  her. 

He  did  not  seek  her  out  after  their  first  greeting.  He  pre- 
ferred to  stand  aside  and  watch  her.  He  had  arrived  later  and 
he  was  staying  late.  Jane  felt  that  it  would  become  her  not  to 
stay.  But  Brodrick  would  not  let  her  go.  He  took  possession 
of  her.  He  paraded  her  as  his  possession  under  Tanqueray's 
eyes ;  eyes  that  were  fixed  always  upon  Jane,  vigilantly,  anxiously, 
as  if  he  saw  her  caught  in  the  toils. 

An  hour  passed.  The  party  dwindled  and  dissolved  around 
them.  The  strangers  were  gone.  The  hordes  of  Levines  had 
scattered  to  their  houses  in  Fitzjohn's  Avenue.  The  little  Le- 
vines had  been  gathered  away  by  their  nurses  from  the  scene. 
Only  Brodrick  and  his  family  remained,  and  Jane  with  them, 
17 


266  T  H  E     C  K  E  A  T  0  R  S 

and  Tanqueray  who  kept  on  looking  at  the  two  while  he  talked 
vaguely  to  Levine. 

Brodrick's  family  was  not  less  interested  or  less  observant. 
It  had  accepted  without  surprise  what  it  now  recognized  as 
inevitable.  It  could  no  longer  hope  that  Hugh  would  cease  from 
his  insane  pursuit  of  Jane  Holland,  after  making  the  thing  thus 
public,  flourishing  his  intentions  in  the  face  of  his  family.  With 
a  dexterity  in  manoeuvre,  an  audacity,  an  obstinacy  that  was  all 
his  own,  Hugh  had  resisted  every  attempt  to  separate  him  from 
Miss  Holland.  He  only  let  go  his  hold  when  Sophy  Levine, 
approaching  with  an  admirable  air  of  innocence  in  guile,  an- 
nounced that  Baby  was  being  put  to  bed.  She  suggested  that 
Jane  might  like  to  see  him  in  his  —  well,  in  his  perfection.  It 
was  impossible,  Sophy  maintained,  for  anybody  not  to  desire 
above  all  things  to  see  him. 

Up-stairs  in  the  nursery,  Winny  and  Mrs.  Heron  were  wor- 
shipping Baby  as  he  lay  on  the  nurse's  lap,  in  his  perfection, 
naked  from  his  bath.  Sophy  could  not  wait  till  he  was  given  up 
to  her.  She  seized  him,  in  the  impatience  of  maternal  passion. 
She  bent  over  him,  hiding  her  face  with  his  soft  body. 

Presently  her  eyes,  Sophy's  beautiful,  loving  eyes,  looked  up 
at  Jane  over  the  child's  shoulder,  and  their  gaze  had  guile  as 
well  as  love  in  it.  Jane  stood  before  it  motionless,  impassive, 
impenetrable. 

Winny  fell  on  her  knees  in  a  rapture. 

"Oh,  Miss  Holland!"  she  cried.     "Don't  you  love  him?" 

Jane  admitted  that  she  rather  liked  him. 

"She's  a  wretch,"  said  Sophy.  "Baby  duckums,  she  says 
she  rather  likes  you." 

Baby  chuckled  as  if  he  appreciated  the  absurdity  of  Jane's 
moderation. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  want,"  said  Winny,  "  don't  you  want  to  kiss 
his  little  feet?  Wouldn't  you  love  to  have  him  for  your  very 
own  ?  " 

"  No,  Winny,  I  should  n't  know  what  to  do  with  him." 

"Wouldn't  you?"  said  Mrs.  Heron. 

"  Feel,"  said  Winny,  "  how  soft  he  is.     He 's  got  teeny,  teeny 


THECREATOES  267 

hairSj  like  down,  golden  down,  Just  there,  on  his  little  back." 

Jane  stooped  and  stroked  the  golden  down.  And  at  the  touch 
of  the  child's  body,  a  fine  pain  ran  from  her  finger-tips  to  her 
heart,  and  she  drew  back,  as  one  who  feels,  for  the  first  time, 
the  touch  of  life,  terrible  and  tender. 

"  Oh,  Jane,"  said  Sophy,  "  what  are  you  made  of  ?  " 

"  I  wonder "  said  Mrs.  Heron. 

Jane  knew  that  the  eyes  of  the  two  women  were  on  her,  search- 
ing her,  and  that  Sophy's  eyes  were  not  altogether  kind.  She 
continued  in  her  impassivity,  smiling  a  provoking  and  inscnitable 
smile, 

"  She  looks,"  said  Sophy,  "  as  if  she  knew  a  great  deal.  And 
she  does  n't  know,  Baby  dear,  she  does  n't  know  anything  at 
all." 

"  Wait,"  said  Mrs.  Heron,  "  till  she  's  got  babies  of  her  own. 
Then  she  '11  know." 

*'  I  know  now,"  said  Jane  calmly. 

"  Not  you,"  said  Sophy  almost  fiercely,  as  she  carried  the  little 
thing  away  to  his  bed  beside  her  own.  Winny  and  the  nurse 
followed  her.     Jane  was  alone  with  Frances  Heron. 

"  ]SI"o  woman,"  said  Frances,  "  knows  anything  till  she  's  had 
a  child." 

"  Oh,  you  married  women !  " 

"  Even  a  married  woman.  She  does  n't  know  what  her  love 
for  her  husband  is  until  she  's  held  his  child  at  her  breast.  And 
she  may  be  as  stupid  as  you  please;  but  she  knows  more  than 
you." 

"  I  know  what  she  knows  —  I  was  born  knowing.  But  if  I 
were  married,  if  I  had  children,  I  should  know  nothing,  nothing 
any  more." 

Frances  was  silent. 

"  They  —  they  'd  press  up  so  close  to  me  that  I  should  see 
nothing  —  not  even  them." 

"  Don't  you  want  them  to  press  ?  " 

"  It  does  n't  matter  what  I  want.  It 's  what  I  see.  And  they 
would  n't  let  me  see," 

"  They  'd  make  you  feel,"  said  Frances. 


268  THECREATOES 

"Feel?  I  should  think  they  would.  I  should  feel  them,  I 
should  feel  for  them,  I  should  feel  nothing  else  besides." 

"  But/'  persisted  Frances,  "  you  would  feel." 

"  Do  you  think  I  don't  ?  "  said  Jane. 

"Well,  there  are  some  things  —  I  don't  see  how  you  can  — 
without  experience." 

"  Experience  ?  Experience  is  no  good  —  the  experience  you 
mean  —  if  you  're  an  artist.  It  spoils  you.  It  ties  you  hand 
and  foot.  It  perverts  you,  twists  you,  blinds  you  to  everything 
but  yourself  and  it.  I  know  women  —  artists  —  who  have  never 
got  over  their  experience,  women  who  '11  never  do  anything  again 
because  of  it." 

"  Then,  my  dear,"  said  Frances,  "  you  would  say  that  geniuses 
would  do  very  much  better  not  to  marry  ? "  Her  voice  was 
sweet,  but  there  was  a  light  of  sword-play  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  say  it  —  if  they  're  thinking  of  their  genius." 

"  Would  you  say  it  to  Hugh  ?  " 

The  thrust  flashed  sharp  and  straight. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Jane,  lightly  parrying  the  thrust. 

Sophy  appeared  again  at  that  moment  and  said  good-bye. 
They  held  her  at  parting  with  a  gaze  that  still  searched  her 
and  found  her  impenetrable.  Their  very  embrace  dismissed  her 
and  disapproved. 

Tanqueray  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  gate.  He  was  going 
to  see  her  home,  he  said.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  her.  They  could 
walk  through  Regent's  Park  towards  Baker  Street. 

They  had  left  the  Levines'  some  way  behind  them  when  he 
turned  to  her. 

"  Jinny,"  he  said,  "  what  are  you  doing  in  that  galley  ?  " 

"What  are  you  doing  in  it  yourself,  George?" 

"  I  ?  I  came  to  see  you.  I  was  told  you  would  be  there. 
You  know,  you  do  let  yourself  in  for  people." 

"Do  I?" 

"  You  do.  And  these  Brodricks  are  n't  your  sort.  No  good 
can  come  of  your  being  mixed  up  with  them.  Why  do  you  do 
these  things  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  They  're  kind  to  me,"  she  pleaded. 


THECEEATOES  269 

"  Kind  ?  Queer  sort  of  kindness,  when  you  're  working  your- 
self to  death  for  that  fellow  and  his  magazine." 

"  I  'm  not.  He  '11  let  me  off  any  day.  He  said  he  'd  rather 
his  magazine  smashed  than  I  did." 

"  And  you  believed  him  ?  " 

"  I  believed  him." 

"  Then,"  said  Tanqueray,  "  it 's  more  serious  than  I  thought." 

His  eyes  rested  on  her,  their  terrible  lucidity  softened  by  some 
veil.     "Do  you  like  him,  Jinny?"  he  said. 

"Do  I  like  him?     Yes." 

"  Why  do  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  because  he 's  good." 

"That's  how  he  has  you,  is  it?" 

He  paused. 

"  Brodrick  does  n't  know  you,  Jinny,  as  I  know  you." 

"  That 's  it,"  she  said.     "  I  wonder  if  you  do." 

"  I  think  I  do.  Better,  perhaps,  in  some  ways,  than  you  know 
yourself." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  time.  The  sound  of  his  slow  feet 
on  the  gravel  measured  the  moments  of  his  thought. 

"  Jinny,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  'm  going  to  talk  truth  to 
you."  Again  he  paused.  "  Because  I  don't  think  anybody  else 
will." 

"  There  are  things,"  he  said,  "  that  are  necessary  to  women 
like  Mrs.  Levine  and  Mrs.  Heron,  that  are  not  necessary  to  you. 
You  have  moments  when  your  need  of  these  things  is  such  that 
you  think  life  is  n't  worth  living  unless  you  get  them.  Those 
moments  are  bound  to  come,  because  you  're  human.  But  they 
pass.  They  pass.  Especially  if  you  don't  attend  to  them.  The 
real,  permanent,  indestructible  thing  in  you  is  the  need,  the  crav- 
ing, the  impulse  to  create  Hamblebys.  It  can't  pass.  You  know 
that.  What  you  won't  admit  is  that  you  're  mistaking  the  tem- 
porary, passing  impulse  for  a  permanent  one.  No  woman  will 
tell  you  that  it 's  temporary.  They  '11  all  take  the  sentimental 
view  of  it,  as  you  do.  Because,  Jinny,  the  devilish  thing  about 
it  is  that,  when  this  folly  falls  upon  a  woman,  she  thinks  it 's 
a  divine  folly." 


270  THE     CREATORS 

He  looked  at  her  again  with  the  penetrating  eyes  that  saw 
everything. 

"  It  may  be/'  he  said.  "  It  may  be.  But  the  chances  are  it 
is  n't." 

"  Tanks,"  she  said,  "  you  're  very  hard  on  me." 

"  Tliat  's  just  what  I  'm  not.  I  'm  tenderer  to  you  than  you 
are  yourself." 

It  was  hard  to  take  in,  the  idea  of  his  tenderness  to  her. 

"  Think  —  think,  before  you  're  drawn  in." 

"  I  am  thinking,"  she  said. 

Tanqueray's  voice  insisted.  "  It 's  easy  to  get  in ;  but  it  is  n't 
so  jolly  easy  to  get  out." 

"  And  if  I  don't  want,"  she  murmured,  "  to  get  out ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  reluctantly,  as  if  compelled  by 
what  he  saw  in  her. 

"  It 's  your  confounded  Jinniness  ! " 

At  last  he  had  acknowledged  it,  her  quality.  He  revolted 
against  it,  as  a  thing  more  provoking,  more  incorrigible  than 
mere  womanliood. 

"  It  '11  always  tug  you  one  way  and  your  genius  another.  I  'm 
only  asking  you  which  is  likely  to  be  stronger  ?  " 

"  Do  I  know,  George  ?     Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  've  told  you,"  he  said.     "  I  think  I  do." 


XXXIII 

THEEE  weeks  later,  one  afternoon  in  October,  Jane  found 
herself  going  at  a  terrific  pace  through  Kensington  Gar- 
dens. Brodrick  had  sent  word  that  he  would  see  her  at  five 
o'clock,  and  it  wanted  but  a  few  minutes  of  that  hour. 

When  Tanqueray  sounded  his  warning,  he  did  not  measure 
the  effect  of  the  illumination  that  it  wrought.  The  passion  he 
divined  in  her  had  had  a  chance  to  sleep  as  long  as  it  was  kept 
in  the  dark.  Now  it  was  wide  awake,  and  superbly  aware  of 
itself  and  of  its  hour. 

After  she  had  parted  from  him  Jane  saw  clearly  how  she  had 
been  drawn,  and  why.  There  was  no  doubt  that  the  folly 
had  come  upon  her ;  the  folly  that  Tanqueray  told  her  she  would 
think  divine.  She  not  only  thought  it  divine,  she  felt  it  to  be 
divine  with  a  certainty  that  Tanqueray  himself  could  not  take 
away  from  her. 

Very  swiftly  the  divine  folly  had  come  upon  her.  She  could 
not  say  precisely  at  what  moment,  unless  it  were  three  weeks  ago, 
when  she  had  stood  dumb  before  the  wise  women,  smitten  by  a 
mortal  pang,  invaded  by  an  inexplicable  helplessness  and  tender- 
ness. It  was  then  that  she  had  been  caught  in  the  toils  of  life, 
the  snares  of  the  folly. 

For  all  its  swiftness,  she  must  have  had  a  premonition  of  it. 
That  was  why  she  had  tried  so  desperately  to  build  the  house  of 
life  for  Brodrick  and  Miss  Collett.  She  had  laboured  at  the 
fantastic,  monstrous  fabrication,  as  if  in  that  way  only  she  could 
save  herself. 

She  had  been  afraid  of  it.  She  had  fought  it  desperately. 
In  the  teeth  of  it  she  had  sat  down  to  write,  to  perfect  a  phrase, 
to  finish  a  paragraph  abandoned  the  night  before;  and  she  had 
found  herself  meditating  on  Brodrick's  moral  beauty. 

She  knew  it  for  the  divine  folly  by  the  way  it  dealt  with  her. 

271 


272  THECEEATORS 

It  made  her  the  victim  of  preposterous  illusions.  The  entire 
district  round  about  Putney  became  for  her  a  land  of  magic  and 
of  splendour.  She  could  not  see  the  word  Putney  posted  on  a 
hoarding  without  a  stirring  of  the  spirit  and  a  beating  of  the 
heart.  When  she  closed  her  eyes  she  saw  in  a  vision  the  green 
grass  plots  and  sinuous  gravel  walks  of  Brodrick's  garden,  she 
heard  as  in  a  vision  the  silver  chiming  of  the  clock,  an  unearthly 
clock,  measuring  immortal  hours. 

The  great  wonder  of  this  folly  was  that  it  took  the  place  of 
the  creative  impulse.  Not  only  did  it  possess  her  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  other  interests,  but  the  rapture  of  it  was  marvellously 
akin  to  the  creative  ecstasy. 

It  drove  her  now  at  a  furious  pace  through  the  Gardens  and 
along  the  High  Street.  It  caused  her  to  exult  in  the  face  of 
the  great  golden  October  sunset  piled  high  in  the  west.  It  made 
her  see  Brodrick  everywhere.  The  Gardens  were  a  green  para- 
dise with  the  spirit  of  Brodrick  moving  in  them  like  a  god.  The 
High  Street  was  a  golden  road  with  Brodrick  at  the  end  of  it. 
The  whole  world  built  itself  into  a  golden  shrine  for  Brodrick. 
He  was  coming  to  see  her  at  five  o'clock. 

He  was  not  there,  in  her  room,  when  she  arrived.  But  he 
had  been  there  so  often  that  he  pervaded  and  dominated  the 
place,  as  Tanqueray  had  once  dominated  and  pervaded  it.  He 
had  created  such  a  habit,  such  a  superstition  of  himself  that  his 
bodily  presence  was  no  longer  necessary  to  its  support.  There 
was  a  chair  by  the  fireplace,  next  the  window.  She  could  not 
see  it  now  without  seeing  Brodrick,  without  seeing  a  look  he  had, 
when,  as  he  sat  there  silent,  his  eyes  had  held  her,  covered  her, 
caressed  her.  There  were  times  when  he  had  the  gestures  and 
the  manner  of  a  man  sitting  by  his  own  fireside,  taking  her  and 
all  that  she  signified  for  granted,  establishing  between  them  a 
communion  in  which  the  poignant,  ultimate  things  were  not  said 
because  they  were  so  profoundly  felt. 

She  caught  herself  smiling  now  at  the  things  she  was  going 
to  say  to  him. 

Her  bell  rang  with  the  dreadful,  startling  noise  that  made 
her  heart  leap  in  her  breast. 


THE     CREATORS  273 

He  came  in  slowly  like  a  man  preoccupied  with  grave  busi- 
ness of  his  own.  And  at  the  sight  of  him  Jane's  heart,  which 
had  leaped  so  madly,  dragged  in  her  breast  and  drew  the  tide  of 
her  blood  after  it. 

He  took  her  hand,  but  not  with  any  eagerness.  His  face  was 
more  than  ever  sombre,  as  if  with  some  inward  darkness  and 
concern.  He  turned  from  her  and  became  interested  in  finding 
a  suitable  place  for  his  hat.  (Jane  noticed  that  it  was  a  new 
one.)     Then  he  sat  down  and  remained  seated. 

He  let  her  get  up  and  cross  the  room  and  ring  the  bell  for 
herself,  so  fixed  was  he  in  his  dream.  Only,  as  her  gown  brushed 
him  in  her  passing  back,  he  was  aware  of  it  and  shrank.  She 
heard  him  draw  in  a  hard  breath,  and  when  she  looked  at  him 
again  she  saw  the  sweat  standing  on  his  forehead. 

"You've  hurried,"   she  said. 

"  I  have  n't,"  said  Brodrick.     "  I  never  hurry." 

"  Of  course  not.     You  never  do  anything  undignified." 

That  was  not  one  of  the  things  that  she  had  meant  to  say. 

"  Never,"  said  Brodrick,  "  if  I  can  help  it."  And  he  wiped 
his  forehead. 

Jane  caught  herself  smiling  at  Brodrick's  hat.  She  felt  a 
sudden  melting,  enervating  tenderness  for  Brodrick's  hat.  The 
passion  which,  in  the  circumstances,  she  could  not  permit  her- 
self to  feel  for  Brodrick,  she  felt,  ridiculously,  for  Brodrick's 
hat. 

It  was,  of  course,  ridiculous,  that  she,  Jane  Holland,  should 
feel  a  passion  for  a  man's  hat,  a  passion  that  brought  her  heart 
into  her  mouth,  so  that  she  could  not  say  any  of  the  things  that 
she  had  thought  of. 

Brodrick's  hat  on  an  arm-chair  beside  him  was  shining  in  the 
firelight.  On  his  uncomfortable  seat  Brodrick  lowered  and 
darkened,  an  incarnate  gloom. 

"  How  happy  your  hat  looks,"  said  Jane,  smiling  at  it  again. 

"  I  'm  glad  it  amuses  you,"  said  Brodrick. 

Jane  made  tea. 

He  rose,  wrapped  in  his  dream,  and  took  his  cup  from  her. 
He  sat  down  again,  in  his  dream,  and  put  his  cup  on  the  arm- 


274  THE     CREATORS 

chair  and  left  it  there  as  an  offering  to  the  hat.  Then,  with  an 
immense,  sustained  politeness,  he  began  to  talk. 

N"ow  that  Hambieby  had  become  a  classic;  he  supposed  that 
her  ambition  was  almost  satisfied. 

It  was  so  much  so,  Jane  said,  that  she  was  tired  of  hearing 
about  Hambieby.  Whereupon  Brodrick  inquired  with  positively 
formidable  politeness,  how  the  new  serial  was  getting  on. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Jane.     "  How  's  the  '  Monthly  Review  '  ?  " 

Brodrick  intimated  that  the  state  of  the  "Monthly  Review" 
was  prosperity  itself,  and  he  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  lately 
from  Mr.  Prothero? 

Jane  said  that  she  had  had  a  long  letter  from  Mr.  Prothero 
the  other  day,  and  she  wished  that  a  suitable  appointment  could 
be  found  for  Mr.  Prothero  at  home.  Brodrick  replied,  that,  at 
the  moment,  he  could  not  think  of  any  appointment  more  suit- 
able for  Mr.  Prothero  than  the  one  he  had  already  got  for 
him. 

Then  there  was  a  silence,  and  when  Jane  with  competitive  ur- 
banity inquired  after  Brodrick's  sisters,  Brodrick's  manner  gave 
her  to  understand  that  she  had  touched  on  a  subject  by  far  too 
intimate  and  personal.  And  while  she  was  wondering  what  she 
could  say  next  Brodrick  took  up  his  hat  and  said  good-bye  and 
went  out  hurriedly,  he  who  never  hurried. 

Jane  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  seat  he  had  left  and 
the  place  where  his  hat  had  been.  And  her  heart  drew  its  doors 
together  and  shut  them  against  Brodrick. 

She  had  heard  the  sound  of  him  going  down  her  stairs,  and 
the  click  of  the  latch  at  the  bottom,  and  the  slamming  of  the 
front  door;  and  then,  under  her  windows,  his  feet  on  the  pave- 
ment of  the  Square.  She  went  to  the  window,  and  stared  at 
the  weeping  ash-trees  in  the  garden  and  thought  of  how  Brod- 
rick had  said  that  it  was  no  wonder  that  they  wept.  And  at 
the  memory  of  his  voice  she  felt  a  little  pricking,  wounding  pain 
under  her  eyelids,  the  birth-pang  of  unwilling  tears. 

There  were  feet,  hurrying  feet  on  the  pavement  again,  and 
again  the  hell  cried  out  with  its  nervous  electric  scream.  Her 
staircase  door  was  opened  quickly  and  shut  again,  but  Jane  heard 


THECEEATORS  275 

nothing  until  Brodrick  stood  still  in  the  room  and  spoke  her 
name. 

She  turned,  and  he  came  forward,  and  she  met  him,  holding 
her  head  high  to  keep  back  her  tears.  She  came  slowly,  with 
shy  feet  and  with  fear  in  her  eyes,  and  the  desire  of  her  heart  on 
her  lips,  lifting  them  like  wings. 

He  took  her  two  hands,  surrendered  to  his,  and  raised  and 
kissed  them.  For  a  moment  they  stood  so,  held  together,  with- 
out any  movement  or  any  speech. 

"  Jinny,"  he  said  thickly,  and  she  looked  down  and  saw  her 
own  tears,  dreadful  drops,  rolling  off  Brodrick's  hands. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  she  said.     "  I  did  n't  mean  to  do  that." 

Her  hands  struggled  in  his,  and  for  pity  he  let  them  go. 

"  You  can't  be  more  surprised  at  me  than  I  am  myself,"  said 
she. 

"  But  I  'm  not  surprised,"  said  Brodrick.     "  I  never  am." 

And  still  she  doubted. 

"  Wliat  did  you  come  back  for  ?  " 

"  This,  of  course." 

He  had  drawn  her  to  the  long  seat  by  the  fireplace. 

"  Why  did  you  go  away,"  she  said,  "  and  make  me  cry  ?  " 

"  Because,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  was  uncertain." 

"  Of  yourself  ?  "     Doubt,  dying  hard,  staljbed  her. 

"  I  am  never  uncertain  of  myself,"  said  Brodrick. 

"Of  what,  then?" 

"  Of  you." 

"  But  you  never  told  me." 

"  I  've  been  trying  to  tell  you  the  whole  time." 

Yet  even  in  his  arms  her  doubt  stirred. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  You  're  going  to  marry  me,"  he  said. 

He  had  been  certain  of  it  the  whole  time. 

"  I  thought,"  she  said  an  hour  later,  "  that  you  were  going 
to  marry  Gertrude." 

"  Oh,  so  that  was  it,  was  it  ?     You  were  afraid " 

"  I  was  n't  afraid.  I  knew  it  was  the  best  thing  you  could 
do." 


276  THECREATORS 

"  The  best  thing  I  could  do  ?     To  marry  Gertrude  ?  " 

"  My  dear  —  it  would  be  far,  far  better  than  marrying  me." 

"  But  I  don't  want/'  said  he,  "  to  marry  Gertrude." 

"  Of  course,  she  does  n't  want  to  marry  you." 

"  I  never  supposed  for  a  moment  that  she  did." 

"  All  the  same,  I  thought  it  was  going  to  happen." 

"  If  it  was  going  to  happen,"  he  said,  "  it  would  have  hap- 
pened long  ago." 

She  insisted.  "  It  would  have  been  nicer  for  you,  dear,  if  it 
had." 

"And  when  I'd  met  you  afterwards  —  you  think  that  would 
have  been  nicer  —  for  all  three  of  us  ?  " 

His  voice  was  low,  shaken,  surcharged  and  crushed  with  pas- 
sion. But  he  could  see  things  plainly.  It  was  with  the  cer- 
tainty, the  terrible  lucidity  of  passion  that  he  saw  himself.  The 
vision  was  disastrous  to  all  ideas  of  integrity,  of  propriety  and 
honour;  it  destroyed  the  long  tradition  of  the  Brodricks.  But 
he  saw  true. 

Jane's  eyes  were  searching  his  while  her  mouth  smiled  at  him. 

"  And  is  it  really,"  she  said,  "  as  bad  as  that?  " 

"  It  always  is  as  bad  as  that,  when  you  're  determined  to  get 
the  thing  you  want.  Luckily  for  me  I  've  only  really  wanted 
one  thing." 

"One  thing?" 

"  You  —  or  a  woman  like  you.  Only  there  never  was  a 
woman  like  you." 

"  I  see.     That 's  why  you  care  for  me  ?  " 

"  Does  it  matter  why  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.     I  only  wondered." 

He  looked  at  her  almost  as  if  he  also  wondered.  Then  they 
were  silent.  Jane  was  content  to  let  her  wonder  die,  but  Brod- 
rick's  mind  was  still  groping  in  obscurity.  At  last  he  seemed 
to  have  got  hold  of  something,  and  he  spoke. 

"  Of  course,  there  's  your  genius,  Jinny.  If  I  don't  say  much 
about  it,  you  must  n't  think  I  don't  care." 

■"  Do  you  ?     There  are  moments  when  I  hate  it.  " 

Her  face  was  set  to  the  mood  of  hatred. 


THE     CREATOES  277 

"  Hugh  dear,  you  're  a  brave  man  to  marry  it." 

"  I  would  n't  marry  it,  if  I  did  n't  think  I  could  look  after  it." 

"  You  need  n't  bother.     It  can  look  after  itself." 

She  paused,  looking  down  where  her  finger  traced  and  traced 

again  the  pattern  of  the  sofa-cover. 

"Did  you  think  I  cared  for  it  so  frightfully?"  she  said. 

"  I  know  you  did." 

"  I  care  for  it  still."     She  turned  to  him  with  her  set  face. 

"  But  I  could  kill  it  if  it  came  between  you  and  me," 


XXXIV 

JANE  had  been  married  for  three  months,  married  with  a 
completeness  that  even  Tanqueray  had  not  foreseen.  She 
herself  had  been  unaware  of  her  capacity  for  surrender.  She 
rejoiced  in  it  like  a  saint  who  beholds  in  himself  the  mystic, 
supreme  transmutation  of  desire.  One  by  one  there  fell  from 
her  the  things  that  had  stood  between  her  and  the  object  of  her 
adoration. 

For  the  forms  of  imagination  had  withdrawn  themselves ;  once 
visible,  audible,  tangible,  they  became  evasive,  fugitive  presences, 
discernible  on  some  verge  between  creation  and  oblivion.  This 
withdrawal  had  once  been  her  agony,  the  dissolution  of  her 
world;  she  had  struggled  against  it,  striving  with  a  vain  and 
ruinous  tension  to  hold  the  perishing  vision,  to  preserve  it  from 
destruction.  Now  she  contemplated  its  disappearance  with  a 
curious  indifference.     She  had  no  desire  to  recover  it. 

She  remembered  how  she  had  once  regarded  the  immolation 
of  her  genius  as  the  thing  of  all  things  most  dangerous,  most 
difficult,  a  form  of  terrible  self-destruction,  the  sundering  of 
passionate  life  from  life.  That  sacrifice,  she  had  said,  would  be 
the  test  of  her  love  for  Hugh  Brodrick.  And  now,  this  thing 
so  difficult,  so  dangerous,  so  impossible,  had  accomplished  itself 
without  effort  and  without  pain.  Her  genius  had  ceased  from 
violence  and  importunity;  it  had  let  go  its  hold;  it  no  longer 
moved  her. 

Nothing  moved  her  but  Brodrick ;  nothing  mattered  but  Brod- 
rick; nothing  had  the  full  prestige  of  reality  apart  from  him. 
Her  heart  went  out  to  the  things  that  he  had  touched  or  worn ; 
things  that  were  wonderful,  adorable,  and  at  the  same  time 
absurd.  His  overcoat  hanging  in  the  hall  called  on  her  for  a 
caress.     Henry,  arriving  suddenly  one  afternoon,  found  her  rub- 

278 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  K  S  279 

bing  her  cheek  against  its  sleeve.  His  gloves,  which  had  taken 
on  the  shape  of  Brodrick's  hands,  were  things  to  be  stroked  ten- 
derly in  passing. 

And  this  house  that  contained  him,  white-walled,  green-shut- 
tered, red-roofed,  it  wore  the  high  colours  of  reality;  the  Heath 
vvas  drenched  in  the  poignant,  tender  light  of  it. 

That  house  on  the  Heath  continued  in  its  incomprehensible 
beauty.  It  was  not  to  be  approached  without  excitement,  a 
beating  of  the  heart.  She  marvelled  at  the  power  that,  out  of 
things  actual  and  trivial,  things  ordinary  and  suburban,  had 
made  for  her  these  radiances  and  immortalities.  She  could  not 
detect  the  work  of  her  imagination  in  the  production  of  this 
state.  It  was  her  senses  that  were  so  exquisitely  acute.  She 
suffered  an  exaltation  of  all  the  powers  of  life.  Her  state  was 
bliss.  She  loved  these  hours,  measured  by  the  silver-chiming 
clock.  She  had  discovered  that  it  struck  the  quarters.  She 
said  to  herself  how  odd  it  was  that  she  could  bear  to  live  with  a 
clock  that  struck  the  quarters. 

She  was  trying  hard  to  be  as  punctual  and  perfect  as  Ger- 
trude Collett.  She  had  gone  to  Gertrude  to  learn  the  secret  of 
these  ordered  hours.  She  had  found  out  from  Gertrude  what 
Brodrick  liked  best  for  dinner.  She  had  listened  humbly  while 
Gertrude  read  to  her  and  expounded  the  legend  of  the  sacred 
Books.  She  had  stood  like  a  child,  breathless  with  attention, 
when  Gertrude  unlocked  the  inner  door  of  the  writing-table  and 
showed  her  the  little  squat  god  in  his  shrine. 

She  played  with  this  house  of  Brodrick's  like  a  child,  making 
believe  that  she  adored  the  little  squat  god  and  respected  all 
the  paraphernalia  of  his  service.  She  knew  that  Gertrude 
doubted  her  seriousness  and  sincerity  in  relation  to  the  god. 

And  all  the  time  she  was  overcome  by  the  pathos  of  Gertrude 
who  had  been  so  serious  and  so  sincere,  who  was  leaving  these 
things  for  ever.  But  though  she  was  sorry  for  Gertrude,  her 
heart  exulted  and  cried  out  in  her,  "  Do  you  think  He  cares  for 
the  little  squat  god?  He  cares  for  nothing  in  the  world  but 
me!" 


280  THECEEATORS 

All  would  have  been  well  if  Brodrick  had  not  committed  the 
grave  error  of  asking  to  look  at  the  Books,  Just  to  see  that  she 
had  got  them  all  right.     Like  Gertrude  he  doubted. 

She  brought  them  to  him;  presenting  first  the  Book  marked 
"  Household."  He  turned  from  the  beginning  of  this  Book  to 
the  end.  The  pages  of  Gertrude's  housekeeping  looked  like 
what  they  were,  a  perfect  and  simple  system  of  accounts. 
Jinny's  pages  looked  like  a  wild,  straggling  lyric,  flung  off  in  a 
rapture  and  meticulously  revised. 

Brodrick  smiled  at  it  —  at  first. 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  she,  "  it  shows  how  hard  I  've  tried." 

For  all  answer  he  laid  before  her  Gertrude's  flawless  work. 

"  Is  it  any  use  trying  to  bring  it  up  to  Gertrude's  standard?  " 
she  said.  "  Would  n't  it  be  better  just  to  accept  the  fact  that 
she  was  wonderful  ?  " 

(He  ignored  the  suggestion.) 

"  I  suppose  you  never  realized  till  now  how  wonderful  that 
woman  was  ?  " 

Brodrick  said  gravely  he  would  have  to  go  into  it  to  see. 

Brodrick,  going  in  deeper,  became  very  grave.  It  seemed  that 
each  week  Jane's  expenditure  overlapped  her  allowance  with  ap- 
palling regularity.     It  was  the  only  regularity  she  had. 

"  Have  you  any  idea.  Jinny,  how  it  goes  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  If  it 's  gone,  it's  gone.     Wliy  should  we  seek  to  know?  " 

"  Just  go  into  it  with  me,"  he  said. 

She  went  into  it  and  emerged  with  an  idea. 

"  It  looks,"  said  Jinny,  "  as  if  I  ate  more  than  Gertrude.     D( 
I?  " 

Still  abstracted,  he  suggested  the  advisability  of  saving. 

"  Can  it  be  done  ?  "  said  Jinny. 

"  It  can,"  said  Brodrick,  "  because  Gertrude  did  it." 

"Must  I  do  it?" 

"  Not  if  it  bothers  you.     I  was  only  saying  it  can  be  done." 

"And  you'd  like  it?" 

"  Well  —  I  should  like  to  know  where  I  am/' 

"  But  —  darling  —  It 's  so  much  better  not  to." 


THECKEATORS  381 

He  sighed.     So  did  Jinny. 

"  I  can  see/'  she  said,  "  what  I  've  done.  I  've  crumpled  all 
the  rose-leaves,  and  you  '11  nevei-  be  able  to  lie  on  them  any 
more." 

Then  she  had  another  idea. 

"  Hugh  !  It 's  just  occurred  to  me.  Talk  of  saving !  I  've 
been  saving  all  the  time  like  fury.  I  save  you  Gertrude 's 
salary." 

At  this  Brodrick  became  angry,  as  Jane  might  have  seen,  only 
she  was  too  entirely  taken  up  with  her  discovery  to  look  at  him. 

"  Here  I  have  been  working  for  months,  trying  how  not  to 
be  extravagant,  and  thinking  how  incompetent  I  am  and  how 
much  more  advantageous  it  would  have  been  for  you  to  have 
married  Gertrude.  And  I  come  lots  cheaper.  I  really  do. 
Was  n't  it  funny  of  us  never  to  have  thought  of  it  before  ?  " 

He  was  very  angry,  but  he  had  to  smile.  Then  by  way  of 
correction  he  reminded  her  that  the  servants  were  getting  rather 
slack.     Did  n't  she  think  it  was  about  time  to  haul  them  up  ? 

She  did  n't.  She  did  n't  like  the  poor  things  to  feel  that  they 
were  driven.     Slie  liked  to  see  happy  faces  all  around  her. 

"  But  they  're  so  unpunctual  —  those  faces,"  Brodrick  said. 
And  while  they  were  on  the  subject  there  was  the  clock.  The 
clock  that  Gertrude  always  used  to  wind,  that  Brodrick  some- 
times forgot  to  wind,  but  that  Jinny  never  by  any  chance  wound 
at  all. 

"  I  'm  happier,"  said  Jane,  "  when  it 's  not  wound." 

"  But  why "     His  face  was  one  vast  amazement. 

"  Because,"  she  said,  "  it  chimes.  And  it  strikes  the  quar- 
ters." 

He  had  thought  that  was  the  great  merit  of  his  incomparable 
clock. 

She  seemed  incorrigible.  Then,  miraculously,  for  two  months 
all  went  well,  really  well. 

It  was  not  for  nothing  that  Hambleby  sold  and  was  selling. 
The  weekly  deficit  continued,  appalling,  palpable  even  to  Jane; 
but  she  made  it  up  secretly.     Secretly,  she  seemed  to  save. 

But  Brodrick  found  that  out  and  stopped  it.     Jane  was  not 

i8 


282  THE     CEEATOES 

allowed,  and  she  knew  it,  to  use  her  own  income  for  the  house 
or  for  anything  else  but  herself  and  her  people.  It  was  n't  for 
that  he  had  married  her.  Besides,  he  objected  to  her  method. 
It  was  too  expensive. 

Jane  was  disposed  to  argue  the  matter. 

"  Don't  you  see,  dear,  that  it 's  the  price  of  peace  ?  Peace  is 
the  most  expensive  thing  on  this  earth  —  any  stupid  politician 
will  tell  you  that.  If  you  won't  pay  for  peace,  what  will  you 
pay  for  ?  " 

"  My  dear  child,  there  used  to  be  more  peace  and  considerable 
less  pay  when  Miss  Collett  did  things." 

"  Yes.     But  she  was  wonderful." 

(Her  lips  lifted  at  the  corners.  There  was  a  flash  of  irony 
in  her  tone,  this  time.) 

"  Not  half  so  wonderful  as  you,"  he  said. 

"  But  —  Hugh  — •  angel  —  as  long  as  it 's  me  who  pays " 

"  That 's  what  I  won't  have  —  your  paying." 

"  It 's  for  my  peace,"  she  said. 

"  It  certainly  is  n't  for  mine,"  said  Brodrick. 

She  considered  him  pensively.  She  knew  that  he  did  n't  care 
a  rap  about  the  little  squat  god,  but  he  abhorred  untidiness  —  in 
other  people. 

"Poor  darling  —  how  uncomfy  he  is,  with  all  his  little  rose- 
leaves  crumpled  under  him.     Irritating  him." 

She  came  and  hung  over  him  and  stroked  his  hair  till  he 
smiled. 

"  I  told  you  at  the  time  you  ought  to  have  married  Gertrude. 
What  on  earth  possessed  you  to  go  and  marry  me  ?  " 

He  kissed  her,  just  to  show  what  possessed  him. 

The  question  of  finance  was  settled  by  his  going  into  it  again 
and  finding  out  her  awful  average  and  making  her  an  allow- 
ance large  enough  to  cover  it.  And  at  the  end  of  another  two 
months  she  came  to  him  in  triumph. 

"  Look  there,"  she  said.  "  I  've  saved  a  halfpenny.  It  is  n't 
much,  but  it  shows  that  I  can  save  when  I  give  my  mind  to  it." 

He  said  he  would  hang  it  on  his  watch-chain  and  cherish  it 
for  ever. 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  K  S  283 

As  before,  he  kissed  her.  He  loved  her,  as  men  love  a  disas- 
trous thing,  desperately,  because  of  her  divine  folly. 

In  all  these  things  her  genius  had  no  part.  It  was  as  if  they 
had  agreed  to  ignore  it.  But  people  were  beginning  to  talk  now 
of  the  Event  of  nineteen-five,  the  appearance  of  Hambleby's  suc- 
cessor, said  to  be  greater  than  Hambleby. 

She  was  conscious  then  of  a  misgiving,  almost  a  dread.  Still, 
it  hardly  concerned  her.  This  book  was  the  work  of  some  one 
unfamiliar,  unrecognizable,  forgotten  by  the  happy  woman  that 
she  was.  So  immense  was  the  separation  between  Jane  Holland 
and  Jane  Brodrick. 

She  was  aware  of  the  imminence  of  her  loss  without  deploring 
it.     She  spoke  of  it  to  Brodrick. 

They  were  sitting  together,  one  night  in  June,  under  the  lime- 
tree  on  the  lawn,  only  half  visible  to  each  other  in  the  falling 
darkness. 

"  Would  you  mind  very  much,"  she  said,  "  if  I  never  wrote 
anything  again  ?  " 

He  turned  to  her.  "  \\niat  makes  you  think  you  can't  write  ? 
(He  too  had  a  misgiving.)  You  've  plenty  of  time.  You  've  all 
day,  in  fact." 

"  Yes,  all  day  long." 

"  It 's  not  as  if  /  bothered  you  —  I  say,  they  don't  bother  you, 
do  they?" 

She  understood  him  as  referring  to  the  frequent,  the  very 
frequent  incursions  of  his  family. 

"  You  must  n't  let  them.     You  must  harden  your  heart." 

"  It  is  n't  they.     It  is  n't  anybody." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  Only  that  everything's  different.     I  'm  different." 

He  regarded  her  for  a  long  time.  She  was  different.  It  was 
part  of  her  queerness,  this  capacity  she  had  for  being  different. 
He  could  see  nothing  now  but  her  wild  fawn  look,  the  softness 
and  the  flush  of  life.     It  was  his  miracle  on  her. 

He  remained  silent,  brooding  over  it.  In  the  stillness  she 
could  hear  his  deep  breathing;  she  could  just  discern  his  face, 
heavy  but  tender. 


284  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

"  It  does  n't  mean  that  you  're  not  well,  Jinny  ?  '^  He  remem- 
bered that  once  or  twice  since  he  had  known  her  it  had  meant 
that. 

She  smiled.     "  Oh  no,  not  that." 

"  It  does  n't  make  you  unhappy  ?  " 

"  No,  not  if  —  if  it  was  n't  for  that  you  cared." 

"  You  know  it  was  n't." 

She  knew.     She  had  always  known  it. 

They  sat  silent  a  long  time.  Eound  and  about  them  Brod- 
rick's  garden  slept,  enchanted  in  darkness.  Phantasmal, 
blanched  by  the  dark,  his  flowers  dreamed  on  the  lawn.  An  im- 
mense tenderness  filled  her  for  Brodrick  and  all  things  that  were 
his. 

At  last  they  rose  and  went  hand  in  hand,  slowly,  through  the 
garden  towards  the  house. 

Her  state  was  bliss;  and  yet,  through  it  all  she  had  a  sense  of 
estrangement  from  herself,  and  of  things  closing  round  her. 


XXXV 

THIS  sense  came  sharply  to  her  one  late  afternoon  in  July. 
She  was  sitting  out  in  the  garden,  watching  Brodrick  as  he 
went  his  slow  and  happy  rounds.  Now  and  then  he  paused 
and  straightened  a  border,  or  propped  some  untended  plant, 
top-heavy  with  bloom,  or  pinned  back  some  wild  arm  of  a  climb- 
ing rose  flung  out  to  pluck  at  him  as  he  went  by.  He  could  not 
but  be  aware  that  since  Gertrude  Collett  left  there  had  been  con- 
fusion and  disorder  in  the  place  she  had  made  perfect. 

In  these  hours  of  innocent  absorption  he  was  oblivious  of  Jane 
who  watched  him. 

The  garden  was  still,  with  that  stillness  that  earth  takes  at 
sunsets  following  hot  days ;  stillness  of  grass-plots  flooded  by  flat 
light;  stillness  of  trees  and  flowers  that  stand  fixed,  held  by  the 
light,  divinely  vivid.  Jane's  vision  of  her  surroundings  had 
never  been  so  radiant  and  intense.  Yet  in  a  moment,  by  some 
impenetrable  way,  her  thoughts  had  wandered  back  to  her  soli- 
tude in  Kensington  Square.  She  saw  herself  sitting  in  her 
room.  She  was  dressed  in  an  old  gown  that  she  had  worn  two 
years  ago,  she  saw  distinctly  the  fashion  and  the  colour  of  it, 
and  the  little  ink-mark  on  the  sleeve.  She  was  writing,  this  soli- 
tary woman,  with  an  extraordinary  concentration  and  rapidity. 
Jane  found  herself  looking  on,  fascinated  as  by  the  performance 
of  a  stranger,  admiring  as  she  would  have  admired  a  stranger. 
The  solitary  woman  knew  nothing  of  Hugh  Brodrick  or  of  his 
house  at  Putney,  and  cared  less ;  she  had  a  desire  and  a  memory 
in  which  he  had  no  part.     That  seemed  to  Jane  most  curious. 

Then  suddenly  she  was  aware  that  she,  Jane  Brodrick,  and 
this  woman,  Jane  Holland,  were  inseparably  and  indestructibly 
one.  For  a  moment  her  memory  and  her  desire  merged  with 
this  woman's  desire  and  memory,  so  that  the  house  and  the  gar- 
den and  the  figure  of  her  husband  became  strange  to  her  and 

285 


386  THECEEATORS 

empty  of  all  significance.  As  for  her  own  presence  in  the  ex- 
traordinary scene,  she  had  no  longer  her  vague,  delicious  wonder 
at  its  reality.  What  she  felt  was  a  shock  of  surprise,  of  spiritual 
dislocation.  She  was  positively  asking  herself,  "  What  am  I  do- 
ing here  ?  " 

The  wonder  passed  with  a  sense  of  shifting  in  her  brain. 

But  there  was  terror  for  her  in  this  resurgence  of  her  un- 
wedded  self.  In  any  settlement  of  affairs  between  Jane  Holland 
and  Jane  Brodrick  it  would  be  the  younger,  the  unwedded 
woman  who  would  demand  of  the  other  her  account.  It  was 
she  who  was  aware,  already,  of  the  imminent  disaster,  the  irrep- 
arable loss.  It  was  she  who  suffered  when  they  talked  about 
the  genius  of  Jane  Holland. 

For  they  were  talking  more  than  ever.  In  another  week  it 
would  be  upon  her,  the  Great  Event  of  nineteen-five.  Her 
frightful  celebrity  exposed  her,  forced  her  to  face  the  thing  she 
had  brought  forth  and  was  ashamed  to  own. 

She  might  have  brazened  it  out  somehow  but  for  Nina  Lem- 
priere  and  her  book.  It  appeared,  Nina's  book,  in  these  hours 
that  tingled  with  expectation  of  the  terrible  Event.  In  a  ma- 
jestic silence  and  secrecy  it  appeared.  Jane  had  heard  Tan- 
queray  praise  it.  "  Thank  heaven,"  he  said,  "  there  's  one  of  us 
that 's  sinless.  Nina  's  genius  can  lay  nothing  to  her  charge." 
She  saw  it.  Nina's  flame  was  pure.  Her  hand  had  virginal 
strength. 

It  had  not  always  had  it.  Her  younger  work,  "  Tales  of  the 
Marches,"  showed  violence  and  torture  in  its  strength.  It  was 
as  if  Nina  had  torn  her  genius  from  the  fire  that  destroyed  it 
and  had  compelled  it  to  create.  Her  very  style  moved  with  the 
vehemence  of  her  revolt  from  Tanqueray.  But  there  had  been  a 
year  between  Tanqueray  and  Owen  Prothero.  For  one  year 
Nina  had  been  immune  from  the  divine  folly.  And  in  that  year 
she  had  produced  her  sinless  masterpiece.  No  wonder  that  the 
Master  praised  her. 

And  above  the  praise  Jane  heard  Nina's  voice  proclaiming  yet 
again  that  the  law  and  the  condition  was  virginity,  untamed  and 
untamable  virginity.     And  for  her,  also,  was  it  not  the  law? 


THECEEATORS  287 

According  to  her  code  and  Tanqueray's  she  had  sinned  a  mortal 
sin.  She  had  conceived  and  brought  forth  a  book,  not  by  divine 
compulsion,  but  because  Brodrick  wanted  a  book  and  she  wanted 
to  please  Brodrick.  Such  a  desire  was  the  mother  of  monstrous 
and  unshapen  things.  In  Tanqueray's  eyes  it  was  hardly  less 
impure  than  the  commercial  taint.  Its  uncleanness  lacked  the 
element  of  venality;  that  was  all  that  could  be  said.  She  had 
done  violence  to  her  genius.  She  had  constrained  the  secret  and 
incorruptible  will. 

It  had  not  suffered  all  at  once.  It  was  still  tense  with  its  own 
young  impulse  towards  creation.  In  the  beginning  of  the  work 
it  moved  divinely;  it  was  divinely  unaware  of  her  and  of  her 
urging. 

She  could  trace  the  stages  of  its  dissolution. 

Nothing  that  Jane  Holland  had  yet  achieved  could  compare 
with  that  beginning.  In  the  middle  there  was  a  slight  decline 
from  her  perfection;  further  on,  a  perpetual  struggle  to  recover 
it;  and,  towards  the  end,  a  frightful  collapse  of  energy.  She 
could  put  her  finger  on  the  place;  there,  at  the  close  of  a  page 
that  fairly  flared ;  for  the  flame,  of  course,  had  leaped  like  mad 
before  it  died.  It  was  at  that  point  that  she  had  got  ill,  and  that 
Brodrick  had  found  her  and  had  taken  her  away. 

After  that  the  sentences  came  in  jerks;  they  gasped  for 
breath;  they  reeled  and  fell;  they  dragged  on,  nerveless  and 
bloodless,  to  an  unspeakable  exhaustion.  Then,  as  if  her  genius 
defied  the  ultimate  corruption,  it  soared  and  made  itself  its  own 
funeral  fire.  She  had  finished  the  thing  somehow,  and  flung  it 
from  her  as  the  divine  folly  came  upon  her.  The  wonder  was 
that  she  should  have  finished  it  at  all. 

And  Tanqueray  might  almost  say  that  she  was  venal.  She 
had  received  money  for  simply  committing  this  crime.  She 
would  receive  money  again  for  perpetuating  it  in  a  more  flagrant 
form.  So  much  down  on  the  awful  day  of  publication;  a  half- 
yearly  revenue  as  long  as  the  abominable  work  endured.  There 
might  be  a  great  deal  of  money  in  it,  as  Louis  Levine  would  say. 
More  money  than  Nina  or  George  Tanqueray  had  ever  made. 
It  was  possible,  it  was  more  than  possible,  it  was  hideously  prob- 


288  THE     CREATORS 

able  that  this  time  she  would  achieve  popularity.  It  was  just  the 
sort  of  terrible,  ironic  thing  that  happened.  If  it  did  happen 
she  would  not  be  able  to  look  George  Tanqueray  in  the  face. 

The  date  of  the  Event  was  fixed  now,  the  fifteenth  of  July. 
It  M^as  like  death.  She  had  never  thought  of  it  as  a  personal 
experience  so  long  as  its  hour  remained  far-off  in  time.  But  the 
terror  of  it  was  on  her,  now  that  the  thing  was  imminent,  that 
she  could  count  the  hours. 

The  day  came,  the  Birthday,  as  Brodrick  called  it,  of  the  Great 
Book.  He  had  told  Tanqueray  long  ago  that  it  was  the  biggest 
thing  she  had  done  yet.  He  bore  himself,  this  husband  of 
Jane's,  with  an  air  of  triumphant  paternity,  as  if  (Tanqueray 
reflected)  he  had  had  a  hand  in  it.  He  had  even  sent  Tanque- 
ray an  early  copy.  Tanqueray  owned  that  the  fellow  was  justi- 
fied. He  thought  he  could  see  very  plainly  Brodrick's  hand, 
his  power  over  the  infatuated  Jinny. 

By  way  of  celebrating  the  fifteenth  he  had  asked  Tanqueray 
to  dinner. 

The  Levines  were  there  and  the  John  Brodricks,  Dr.  Henry 
Brodrick  and  Mrs.  Heron.  But  for  the  presence  of  the  novelist, 
the  birthday  dinner  was  indistinguishable,  from  any  family  fes- 
tival of  Brodricks.  Solemn  it  was  and  ceremonial,  yet  intimate, 
relieved  by  the  minute  absurdities,  the  tender  follies  of  people 
who  were,  as  Tanqueray  owned,  incomparably  untainted.  It  was 
Jinny's  great  merit,  after  all,  that  she  had  not  married  a  man 
who  had  the  taint.  The  marvel  was  how  the  editor  had  con- 
trived to  carry  intact  that  innocence  of  his  through  the  horrors 
of  his  obscene  profession.  It  argued  an  incorruptible  natural 
soundness  in  the  man. 

And  only  the  supreme  levity  of  innocence  could  have  devised 
and  accomplished  this  amazing  celebration.  It  took,  Tanqueray 
said  to  himself,  a  mind  like  Brodrick's  to  be  unaware  of  Jinny's 
tragedy,  to  be  unaware  of  Jinny. 

He  himself  was  insupportably  aware  of  her,  as  she  sat,  doomed 
and  agonizing,  in  her  chair  at  the  head  of  Brodrick's  table. 

They  had  stuck  him,  of  course,  at  her  left,  in  the  place  of 
honour.     Unprofitable  as  he  was,  they  acknowledged  him  as  a 


THECEEATOES  289 

great  man.  He  was  there  on  the  ground  and  on  the  sanction  of 
his  greatness.  Nobody  else,  their  manner  had  suggested,  was 
great  enough  to  be  set  beside  Jinny  in  her  splendid  hour.  His 
stature  was  prized  because  it  gave  the  measure  of  hers.  He  was 
there  also  to  officiate.  He  was  the  high  priest  of  the  unspeak- 
able ritual.  He  would  be  expected  presently  to  say  something, 
to  perform  the  supreme  and  final  act  of  consecration. 

And  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  think  of  anything  to 
say.  The  things  he  thought  could  not  be  said  while  he  sat  there, 
at  Brodrick's  table.  Afterwards,  perhaps,  when  he  and  she  were 
alone,  if  she  insisted. 

But  she  would  not  insist.  Far  from  it.  She  would  not  ex- 
pect him  to  say  anything.  What  touched  him  was  her  utter  ab- 
sence of  any  expectation,  the  candour  with  which  she  received 
his  silence  as  her  doom. 

The  ceremony  was  growing  more  and  more  awful.  Cham- 
pagne had  been  brought.  They  were  going  —  he  might  have 
foreseen  it  —  they  were  going  to  drink  to  the  long  life  of  the 
Book. 

John  Brodrick  rose  first,  then  Henry,  then  Levine.  They 
raised  their  glasses.     Jane's  terrified  eyes  met  theirs. 

"  To  the  Book !  "  they  said.  "  To  the  Book  !  "  Tanqueray 
found  himself  gazing  in  agony  at  his  glass  where  the  bubbles 
danced  and  glittered,  calling  him  to  the  toast.  For  the  life  of 
him  he  could  not  rise. 

Brodrick  was  drinking  now,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  wife.  And 
Tanqueray,  for  the  life  of  him,  could  not  help  looking  at  Jane, 
to  see  how  she  would  take  it. 

She  took  it  well.  She  faced  the  torture  smiling,  with  a  cour- 
age that  was  proof,  if  he  had  wanted  proof,  of  her  loyalty  to 
Brodrick.  Her  smile  trembled  as  it  met  Brodrick's  eyes  across 
the  table,  and  the  tenderness  of  it  went  to  Tanqueray's  heart. 
She  held  out  her  glass ;  and  as  she  raised  it  she  turned  and  looked 
full  in  Tanqueray's  face,  and  smiled  again,  steadily. 

"  To  the  Book !  "  she  said.  "  To  Nina  Lempriere's  book ! 
You  can  drink  now,  George." 

He  met  her  look. 


290  THE     CEEA  TORS 

"  Here  's  to  you.     You  immortal  Jinny." 

Lucid  and  comprehending,  over  tlie  tilted  glass  his  eyes  ap- 
proved her,  adored  her.  She  flushed  under  the  unveiled,  delib- 
erate gaze. 

"  Did  n't  I  get  you  out  of  that  nicely  ?  "  she  said,  an  hour 
later,  outside  in  the  darkening  garden,  as  she  paced  the  terrace 
with  him  alone.  The  others,  at  Brodrick's  suggestion,  had  left 
them  to  their  communion.  Brodrick's  idea  evidently  was  that 
the  novelist  would  break  silence  only  under  cover  of  the  night. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  It  was  like  your  sweetness." 

"  You  can't  say,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  'm  not  appreciated  in 
my  family." 

Through  the  dark,  as  her  face  flashed  towards  him,  he  saw 
the  little  devil  that  sat  laughing  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  need  n't  be  afraid  to  talk  about  it,"  she  said.  "  And 
you  need  n't  lie  to  me.     I  know  it 's  a  tragedy." 

He  had  never  lied  to  her.  It  was  not  in  him  to  fashion  for 
her  any  tender  lie. 

"  It 's  worse  than  a  tragedy.  It 's  a  sin.  Jinny.  And  that 's 
what  I  would  have  saved  you  from.  Other  people  can  sin  and 
not  suffer.     You  can't.     There's  your  tragedy." 

She  raised  her  head. 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  tragedies." 

He  went  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard  her.  "  It  would  n't  have 
mattered  if  it  had  been  bad  all  through.  But  neither  you  nor  I, 
Jinny,  have  ever  written,  probably  we  never  shall  write,  any- 
thing to  compare  with  the  beginning  of  that  book.  My  God ! 
To  think  that  there  were  only  six  months  —  six  months  —  be- 
tween that  beginning  and  that  end." 

She  smiled,  saying  to  herself,  "  Only  six  months.  Yes.  But 
what  months !  " 

"  You  've  killed  a  masterpiece,"  he  said,  "  between  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  Hugh  ?  "  she  said.  "  What  had  he  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  He  married  you." 

"  My  crime  was  committed  before  he  married  me." 


THE     CEEATOPtS  291 

"Exactly/'  She  was  aware  of  the  queer,  nervous,  upward 
jerk  of  his  moustache,  precluding  the  impermissible  —  "When 
you  were  in  love  with  him." 

Her  face  darkened  as  she  turned  to  him. 

"Let's  talk  about  Nina's  book.  George  —  there  isn't  any- 
body like  her.     And  I  knew,  I  knew  she  'd  do  it." 

"  Did  you  know  that  she  did  it  before  she  saw  Prothero." 

"  I  know." 

"  And  that  she  's  never  written  a  line  since  ?  " 

"  When  she  does  it  will  be  immense.     Because  of  him." 

"  Possibly.     She  has  n't  married  him." 

"  After  all,  George,  if  it  comes  to  that,  you  're  married  too." 

"  Yes.     But  I  married  a  woman  who  can't  do  me  any  harm." 

"  Could  anybody." 

She  stood  still  there,  on  the  terrace,  fronting  him  with  the 
scorn  of  her  question. 

He  did  not  answer  her  at  first.  His  face  changed  and  was 
silent  as  his  thought.  As  they  paced  up  and  down  again  he 
spokci 

"  I  don't  mind,  Jinny ;  if  you  're  happy ;  if  you  're  really  con- 
tent." 

"  You  see  that  I  am." 

Her  voice  throbbed.  He  caught  the  pure,  the  virginal,  tremor, 
and  knew  it  for  the  vibration  of  her  soul.  It  stirred  in  him  a 
subtle,  unaccountable  pang. 

She  paused,  brooding. 

"  I  shall  be,"  she  said,  "  even,  if  I  never  do  anything  again." 

"  Nothing,"  he  assured  her,  "  can  take  from  you  the  things 
you  have  done.  Look  at  Hambleby.  He  's  enough.  After  all. 
Jinny,  you  might  have  died  young  and  just  left  us  that.  We 
ought  to  be  glad  that,  as  it  is,  we  've  got  so  much  of  you." 

"  So  much " 

Almost  he  could  have  said  she  sighed. 

"  Nothing  can  touch  Hambleby  or  the  genius  that  made  him.'' 

"  George  —  do  you  think  it  '11  ever  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

She  stood  still  again.     He  was  aware  now,  through  her  voice, 


292  THE     CEEATORS 

of  something  tense,  something  perturbed  and  tormented  In  her 
soul.  He  rejoiced,  for  it  was  he  who  had  stirred  her ;  it  was  he 
who  had  made  her  feeh 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  it  '11  come  back.  If  you  choose  —  if 
you  let  it.     But  you  '11  have  to  pay  your  price." 

She  was  silent.  They  talked  of  other  things.  Presently  the 
John  Brodricks,  the  Levines  and  Mrs.  Heron  came  out  into  the 
garden  and  said  good-night,  and  Tanqueray  followed  them  and 
went. 

She  found  Hugh  closeted  with  Henry  in  the  library  where 
invariably  the  doctor  lingered.  Brodrick  made  a  sign  to  his 
brother-in-law  as  she  entered. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  've  had  your  talk." 

"  Oh  yes,  we  've  had  it." 

She  lay  back  in  her  seat  as  if  exhausted  by  hard  physical  exer- 
cise, supporting  the  limp  length  of  her  arms  on  the  sides  of  the 
chair. 

The  doctor,  after  a  somewhat  prolonged  observation  of  her 
posture,  remarked  that  she  should  make  a  point  of  going  to  bed 
at  ten. 

Brodrick  pleaded  the  Birthday  of  the  Book.  And  at  the  mem- 
ory of  the  intolerable  scene,  and  of  Tanqueray's  presence  in  it, 
her  agony  broke  out. 

"  Don't  talk  about  it.     I  don't  want  ever  to  hear  of  it  again." 

"  What 's  he  been  saying  to  you  ?  "  said  Brodrick. 

"  He  'd  no  need  to  say  anything.  Do  you  suppose  I  don't 
know  ?     Can't  you  see  how  awful  it  is  for  me  ?  " 

Brodrick  raised  the  eyebrows  of  innocence  amazed. 

"  It 's  as  if  I  'd  brought  something  deformed  and  horrible 
into  the  world " 

The  doctor  leaned  forward,  more  than  ever  attentive. 

"  And  you  would  go  and  drag  it  out,  all  of  you,  when  I  was 
sitting  there  in  shame  and  misery.  And  before  George  Tan- 
queray —  How  could  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Jinny " 

Brodrick  was  leaning  forward  too  now,  looking  at  her  with 
affectionate  concern. 


THECEEATORS  293 

Her  brother-in-law  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  He  detained 
hers  for  an  appreciable  moment,  thoughtfully,  professionally. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  really,  you  'd  better  go  to  bed." 

Outside  in  the  hall  she  could  hear  him  talking  to  Hugh. 

"  It 's  physical,  it 's  physical,"  he  said.  "  It  won't  do  to  up- 
set her.     You  must  take  great  care." 

The  doctor's  voice  grew  mysterious,  then  inaudible,  and  she 
heard  Hugh  saying  he  supposed  that  it  was  so ;  and  Henry  mur- 
mured and  mumbled  himself  away.  Outside  their  voices  still 
retreated  with  their  footsteps,  down  the  garden  path,  and  out  at 
the  terrace  gate.     Hugh  was  seeing  Henry  home. 

When  he  came  back  he  found  Jane  in  the  library,  sitting  up 
for  him.     She  was  excited  and  a  little  flushed. 

"  So  you  've  had  your  talk,  have  you  ?  "  she  said. 

«  Yes." 

He  came  to  her  and  put  his  hands  on  her  forehead. 

"  Look  here.     Y^ou  ought  to  have  gone  to  bed." 

She  took  his  hand  and  drew  him  to  her. 

"  Henry  does  n't  think  I  'm  any  good,"  she  said. 

"  Henry's  very  fond  of  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  To  Henry  I  'm  nothing  but  a  highly  interesting  neurotic. 
He  watches  me  as  if  he  were  on  the  look-out  for  some  abnormal 
manifestation,  with  that  delightful  air  he  has  of  never  being 
surprised  at  anything,  as  if  he  could  calculate  the  very  mo- 
ment." 

"My  dear " 

"  I  'm  used  to  it.  My  people  took  me  that  way,  too.  Only 
they  had  n't  a  scientific  turn  of  mind,  like  Henry.  They  did  n't 
think  it  interesting ;  and  they  have  n't  Henry's  angelic  patience 
and  forbearance.  I  was  the  only  one  of  the  family,  don't  you 
know,  who  was  n't  quite  sane ;  and  yet  —  so  unlike  Henry  — 
they  considered  me  rather  more  responsible  than  any  of  them. 
I  could  n't  get  ofE  anything  on  the  grounds  of  my  insanity." 

All  the  time,  while  thus  tormenting  him,  she  seemed  pre 
foundly  occupied  with  the  hand  she  held,  caressing  it  with  swift, 
nervous,  tender  touches. 


294  THE     CREA  TOES 

"  After  all,"  she  said,  "  I  have  n't  turned  out  so  badly ;  even 
from  Henry's  point  of  view,  have  I  ?  " 

He  laughed.     "  What  is  Henry's  point  of  view  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  "  You  know,  and  I  know  that 
Henry  did  n't  want  you  to  marry  me." 

The  uncaptured  hand  closed  over  hers,  holding  it  tighter  than 
she  herself  could  hold. 

•'  No,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  not  the  sort  of  woman  Henry  ivould 
want  you  to  marry.     To  please  Henry " 

"  I  did  n't  marry  to  please  Henry." 

"  To  please  Henry  you  should  have  married  placable  flesh 
and  blood,  very  large  and  handsome,  without  a  nerve  in  her 
body.  The  sort  of  woman  who  has  any  amount  of  large  and 
handsome  flesh-and-blood  children,  and  lives  to  have  them, 
thrives  on  them.     That 's  Henry's  idea  of  the  right  woman." 

He  admitted  that  it  had  once  been  his.  He  had  seen  his  wife 
that  was  to  be,  placable,  as  Jinny  said,  sane  flesh  and  blood,  the 
mother  of  perfect  children. 

"  And  so,  of  course,"  said  Jinny,  "  you  go  and  marry  me." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Brodrick.  He  said  it  in  the  voice  she 
loved. 

"  \\niy  didn't  you  marry  her?  She  wouldn't  have  bothered 
your  life  out."  She  paused.  "  On  the  other  hand,  she  would  n't 
have  cared  for  you  as  I  do.  That  sort  of  woman  only  cares  for 
her  children." 

"  Won't  you  care  for  them.  Jinny  ?  " 

"  ISTot  as  I  care  for  you,"  said  Jinny. 

And  to  his  uttermost  amazement  she  bowed  her  head  over  his 
hands  and  cried. 


XXXVI 

TANQTJEEAY'S  book  was  out.  Times  and  seasons  mattered 
little  in  a  case  so  hopeless.  There  was  no  rivalry  between 
George  Tanqueray  and  his  contemporaries;  therefore,  his  pub- 
lishers had  not  scrupled  to  produce  him  in  the  same  month  as 
Jane  Holland.  They  handled  any  work  of  his  with  the  apathy 
of  despair. 

He  himself  had  put  from  him  all  financial  anxiety  when  he 
banked  the  modest  sum,  "  on  account,"  which  was  all  that  he 
could  look  for.  The  perturbing  question  for  him  was,  not 
whether  his  sales  would  be  small  or  great,  but  whether  this 
time  the  greatness  of  his  work  would  or  would  not  be  recognized. 
He  did  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  it  would  be.  His  tide 
would  never  turn. 

His  first  intimation  that  it  was  turning  came  from  Jane,  in  a 
pencil  note  enclosed  with  a  newspaper  cutting,  his  first  favour- 
able review.  "  Poor  George,"  she  wrote,  "  you  thought  you  could 
escape  it.  But  it 's  coming  —  it 's  come.  You  need  n't  think 
you  're  going  to  be  so  very  posthumous,  after  all."  He  marvelled 
that  Jinny  should  attach  so  much  importance  to  the  printed 
word. 

But  Jinny  had  foreseen  those  mighty  lunar  motions  that  con- 
trol the  tides.  It  looked  really  as  if  it  had  come,  years  before  he 
had  expected  it,  as  if  (as  dear  Jinny  put  it)  he  would  not  have 
a  chance  of  being  posthumous.  Xot  only  was  he  aware  that  this 
book  of  his  was  a  masterpiece,  but  other  people  were  aware. 
There  was  one  man,  even  Tanqueray  admitted,  who  cared  and 
knew,  whose  contemporary  opinion  carried  the  prestige  of  pos- 
terity; and  he  had  placed  him  where  he  would  be  placed.  And 
lesser  men  followed,  praising  him;  some  with  the  constrained 
and  tortured  utterances  of  critics  compelled  into  eating  their 
own  words ;  some  with  the  cold  weight  of  a  verdict  delivered  un- 

295 


396  THE     CREA  TOES 

willingly  under  judicial  pressure.  And  there  were  others,  lesser 
still,  men  who  had  hated  Tanqueray.  They  postured  now  in 
attitudes  of  prudery  and  terror ;  they  protested ;  they  proclaimed 
themselves  victims  of  diabolic  power,  worshippers  of  the  purity, 
the  sanctity  of  English  letters,  constrained  to  an  act  of  unholy 
propitiation.     They  would,  if  they  could,  have  passed  him  by. 

It  was  Caro  Bickersteth  who  said  of  Tanqueray  that  he  played 
upon  the  imaginations  of  his  critics  as  he  played  upon  women's 
hearts. 

And  so  it  went  on.  One  took  off  a  conventional  hat  to  Mr. 
Tanqueray's  sincerity ;  and  one  complained  of  "  Mr.  Tanqueray's 
own  somewhat  undraped  attitude  toward  the  naked  truth,"  ob- 
serving that  truth  was  not  nearly  so  naked  as  "  Mr.  Tanqueray 
would  have  us  think."  Another  praised  "  his  large  undecorated 
splendour."  They  split  him  up  into  all  his  attributes  and  an- 
titheses. They  found  wonder  in  his  union  of  tenderness  and 
brutality.  They  spoke  of  "  the  steady  beat  of  his  style,"  and  his 
touch,  "  the  delicate,  velvet  stroke  of  the  hammer,  driven  by  the 
purring  dynamo."  Articles  appeared  ("  The  Novels  of  George 
Tanqueray;"  "George  Tanqueray:  an  Appreciation;"  "George 
Tanqueray :  an  Apology  and  a  Protest ")  ;  with  the  result  that  his 
publishers  reported  a  slight,  a  very  slight  improvement  in  his 
sales. 

Besides  this  alien  tribute  there  was  Caro  Bickersteth's  large 
column  in  the  "  Morning  Telegraph,"  and  Nicky's  inspired 
eulogy  in  the  "  Monthly  Eeview."  For,  somehow,  by  the  eter- 
nal irony  that  pursued  him,  Nicky's  reviews  of  other  people  could 
get  in  all  right,  while  his  own  poems  never  did  and  never  would. 
And  there  was  the  letter  that  had  preceded  Jinny's  note,  the  letter 
that  she  wrote  to  him,  as  she  said,  "  out  of  the  abyss."  It 
brought  him  to  her  feet,  where  he  declared  he  would  be  glad  to 
remain,  whether  Jinny's  feet  were  in  or  out  of  the  abyss. 

Eoso  revived  a  little  under  this  praise  of  Tanqueray.  Not 
that  she  said  very  much  about  it  to  him.  She  was  too  hurt  by 
the  way  he  thrust  all  his  reviews  into  the  waste-paper  basket, 
without  showing  them  to  her.  But  slio  went  and  picked  them 
out  of  tlie  waste-paper  basket  when  he  was  n't  looking,  and  pasted 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S  297 

all  the  good  ones  into  a  book,  and  burnt  all  the  bad  ones  in  the 
kitchen  iire.  And  she  ])roiight  the  reviews,  and  made  her  boast 
of  him  to  Aunt  and  Uncle,  and  told  them  of  the  nice  sum  of 
money  that  his  book  had  "  fetched,"  this  time.  This  was  all  he 
had  been  waiting  for,  she  said,  before  he  took  a  little  house  at 
Hampstead. 

For  he  had  taken  it  at  last,  that  little  house.  It  was  one  of 
a  terrace  of  three  that  stood  high  above  the  suburb,  close  to  the 
elm-tree  walk  overlooking  the  West  Heath.  A  diminutive 
brown-brick  house,  with  jasmine  climbing  all  over  it,  and  a  little 
square  of  glass  laid  like  a  mat  in  front  of  it,  and  a  little  garden 
of  grass  and  flower-borders  behind.  Inside,  to  be  sure,  there 
was  n't  any  drawing-room ;  for  what  did  Rose  want  with  a  draw- 
ing-room, she  would  like  to  know?  But  there  was  a  beautiful 
study  for  Tanqueray  up-stairs,  and  a  little  dining-room  and  a 
kitchen  for  Rose  below. 

Rose  had  sought  counsel  in  her  furnishing;  with  the  result 
that  Tanqueray's  study  bore  a  remarkable  resemblance  to  Laura 
Gunning's  room  in  Camden  Town,  while  Rose's  dining-room  re- 
called vividly  Mrs.  Henderson's  dining-room  at  Fleet. 

Though  it  was  such  a  little  house,  there  had  been  no  difficulty 
about  getting  the  furniture  all  in.  The  awful  thing  was  mov- 
ing Tanqueray  and  his  books.  It  was  a  struggle,  a  hostile  inva- 
sion, and  it  happened  on  his  birthday.  And  in  the  middle  of  it 
all,  when  the  last  packing-case  was  hardly  emptied,  and  there 
was  n't  a  carpet  laid  down  anywhere,  Tanqueray  announced  that 
he  had  asked  some  people  to  dine  that  night. 

"Wot,  a  dinner-party?"  said  Rose  (she  was  trying  not  to 
cry). 

"  No,  not  a  party.     Only  six." 

"  Six,"  said  Rose,  "  is  a  dinner-party." 

"  Twenty-six  might  be." 

Rose  sat  down  and  looked  at  him  and  said,  "  Oh  dear,  oh 
dear."  But  she  had  begun  to  smooth  her  hair  in  a  kind  of  an- 
ticipation. 

Then  Tanqueray  stooped  and  put  his  arm  around  her  and 
kissed  her  and  said  it  was  his  birthday.  He  always  did  ask 
19 


298  THECEEATORS 

people  to  dine  on  his  birthday.  There  would  only  be  the  Brod- 
ricks  and  Nicky  and  Nina  Lempriere  and  Laura  Gunning  —  No, 
Laura  Gunning  could  n't  come.  That,  with  themselves,  made 
six. 

"  Well "  said  Rose  placidly. 

"  I  can  take  them  to  a  restaurant  if  you  'd  rather.  But  I 
thought  it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  them  in  our  own  house. 
When  it 's  my  birthday." 

She  smiled.  She  was  taking  it  all  in.  In  her  eyes,  for  once, 
he  was  like  a  child,  with  his  birthday  and  his  party.  How  could 
she  refuse  him  anything  on  his  birthday?  And  all  through  the 
removal  he  had  been  so  good. 

Already  she  was  measuring  spaces  with  her  eye. 

"  It  '11  'old  six,"  she  said  —  "  squeezin'." 

She  sat  silent,  contemplating  in  a  vision  the  right  sequence 
of  the  dinner. 

"  There  must  be  soup,"  she  said,  "  an'  fish,  an'  a  hongtry  an'  a 
joint,  an'  a  puddin'  an'  a  sav'ry,  an'  dessert  to  follow." 

"  Oh  Lord,  no.  Give  'em  bread  and  cheese.  They  're  none 
of  'em  greedy." 

"  I  '11  give  you  something  better  than  that,"  said  Rose ;  "  on 
your  birthday  —  the  idea !  " 

Dinner  was  to  be  at  eight  o'clock.  The  lateness  of  the  hour 
enabled  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eldred  to  come  up  and  give  a  hand  with 
the  waiting  and  the  dishing-up.  They  had  softened  towards 
Tanqueray  since  he  had  taken  that  little  house.  That  he  should 
give  a  dinner-party  in  it  during  the  middle  of  the  removal  was 
no  more  than  they  expected  of  his  eccentricity. 

The  dinner  went  off  very  well.  Rose  was  charming  in  a  pink 
silk  blouse  with  lace  at  her  throat  and  wrists.  Her  face  too 
was  pink  with  a  flush  of  anxiety  and  excitement.  As  for  George, 
she  had  never  seen  him  look  so  handsome.  She  could  hardly 
take  her  eyes  off  him,  as  he  sat  there  in  his  beautiful  evening  suit 
and  white  shirt-front.  He  was  enjoying  his  birthday  like  a 
child,  and  laughing — she  had  never  heard  him  laugh  like  that 
in  her  life  before.  He  laughed  most  at  the  very  things  she 
thought  would  vex  him,  the  little  accidents,  such  as  the  sliding 


THE     ORE  A  TOES  299 

of  all  the  dinner-plates  from  Mr.  Nicholson's  hands  on  to  the 
floor  at  Uncle's  feet  in  the  doorway,  and  Uncle's  slamming  of 
the  door  upon  the  fragments.  The  dinner,  too;  she  had  been 
afraid  that  George  would  n't  like  all  his  friends  to  know  she  'd 
cooked  it.  But  he  told  them  all  straight  out,  laughing,  and  ask- 
ing them  if  she  was  n't  very  clever  ?  And  they  all  said  that  she 
was,  and  that  her  dinner  was  delicious;  even  the  dishes  that  she 
had  worried  and  trembled  over.  And  though  she  had  cooked 
the  dinner,  she  had. n't  got  to  wait.  Not  one  of  the  gentlemen 
would  let  her.  Eose  became  quite  gay  with  her  small  triumph, 
and  by  the  time  the  sweets  came  she  felt  that  she  could  talk  a 
little. 

For  Nicky  was  the  perfection  of  admirable  behaviour.  His 
right  ear,  patient  and  attentive,  leaned  toward  Tanqueray's 
wife,  while  his  left  strained  in  agony  to  catch  what  Tanqueray 
was  saying,  Tanqueray  was  talking  to  Jane.  He  had  said  he 
supposed  she  had  seen  the  way  "  they  had  been  going  for  him," 
and  she  had  asked  him  was  it  possible  he  minded? 

"  Minded  ?  After  your  letter  ?  When  a  big  full-fledged  arch- 
angel gets  up  on  the  tips  of  its  toes,  and  spreads  its  gorgeous 
wings  in  front  of  me,  and  sings  a  hymn  of  praise  out  loud  in  my 
face,  do  you  think  I  hear  the  little  beasts  snarling  at  my  feet  and 
snapping  at  the  calves  of  my  legs  ?  " 

Eose  at  Nicky's  right  was  saying,  "  It 's  over  small  for  a 
dinin'-room.     But  you  should  see  'is  study." 

He  bowed  an  ear  that  did  not  hear  her. 

"  Nicky  did  me  well,"  said  Tanqueray. 

"  I  told  you  all  the  time,"  said  Jane,  "  that  Nicky  knew." 

"  '  E  could  n't  do  anything  without  'is  study." 

"  Ah  ?  "     Nicky  returned  to  the  little  woman,  all  attention. 

"  Are  n't  you  proud  of  him  ?  Is  n't  it  splendid  how  he  's 
brought  them  round  ?     How  they  're  all  praising  him  ?  " 

"  So  they  'd  ought  to,"  Eose  said.  "  'E  's  worked  'ard  enough 
for  it.  The  way  'e  works !  He  '11  sit  think-thinkin'  for  hours, 
before  'e  seems  as  if  'e  could  get  fair  hold  of  a  word " 

They  had  all  stopped  talking  to  Tanqueray  and  were  listening 
to  Tanqueray's  wife. 


300  THECREATOES 

"  Then  'e  '11  start  writin',  slow-like ;  and  'e  '11  go  over  it  again 
and  again,  a-scratchin'  out  and  a-scratchin'  out,  till  all  'is  papers 
is  a  marsh  of  ink ;  and  'e  '11  'ave  to  write  all  that  over  again. 
And  the  study  and  the  care  'e  gives  to  it  you  'd  never  think." 

Nicky's  ear  leaned  closer  than  ever,  as  if  to  shelter  and  pro- 
tect her;  and  Eose  became  aware  that  George's  forehead  was 
lowering  upon  her  from  the  other  end  of  the  table  and  trying  to 
scowl  her  into  silence. 

After  that  Eose  talked  no  more.  She  sat  wondering  miser- 
ably what  it  was  that  she  had  done.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  what  had  annoyed  him  was  her  vivid  revelation  of  his 
method.  The  dinner  she  was  enjoying  so  much  had  suddenly 
become  dreadful  to  her. 

Her  wonder  and  her  dread  still  weighed  on  her,  long  after 
it  was  over,  when  she  was  showing  Mrs.  Brodrick  the  house. 
Her  joy  and  her  pride  in  it  were  dashed.  Over  all  the  house 
there  hung  the  shadow  of  George's  awful  scowl.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  George's  scowl  must  have  had  something  to  do  with 
Mrs.  Brodrick ;  that  she  must  have  shamed  him  in  some  way  be- 
fore the  lady  he  thought  so  much  of,  who  thought  so  much  of 
him.  A  little  too  much,  Eose  said  to  herself,  seeing  that  she 
was  a  married  woman. 

And  for  the  first  time  there  crept  into  Eose's  obscurely  suffer- 
ing soul,  a  fear  and  a  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Brodrick. 

Jane  felt  it,  and  divined  beneath  it  the  suffering  that  was  its 
cause.  It  was  not  as  if  she  had  not  known  how  George  could 
make  a  woman  suffer. 

Her  acutest  sense  of  it  came  to  her  as  they  stood  together  in 
the  bedroom  that  she  had  been  called  on  to  admire.  Eose's  bed- 
room was  a  wonder  of  whiteness ;  so  was  the  great  smooth  double 
bed ;  but  the  smoothest  and  the  whitest  thing  in  it  was  Tanque- 
ray's  pillow  where  Tanqucray's  head  had  never  lain.  There  was 
a  tiny  dressing-room  beyond,  and  through  the  open  door  Jane 
cauglit  a  sight  of  the  low  camp-bed  where,  night  after  night, 
Tanqucray's  genius  flung  its  victim  down  to  sleep  off  the  orgy  of 
the  day's  work.  The  dressing-room  was  a  place  where  he  could 
hide  from  Eose  by  night  as  he  hid  from  her  by  day. 


THE     CREATORS  301 

And  Rose,  when  they  took  the  house,  had  been  so  proud  of 
the  dressing-room. 

Jane,  seeing  these  things,  resolved  to  remove  the  fear  and 
jealousy.  She  must  let  Rose  see  that  she  was  not  dangerous; 
and  she  knew  how. 

She  began  by  asking  Rose  when  she  was  coming  out  to  Put- 
ney ?  And  Rose  answered  that  she  was  busy  and  could  n't  say 
for  sure. 

"  You  won't  be  busy  in  August,  will  you  ?  If  you  '11  come 
then  I  '11  show  you  a  room  you  have  n't  seen,  the  prettiest  room 
in  the  house." 

Rose  drew  in  her  breath.  Her  face  had  the  soft  flush  in  it 
that  came  when  she  was  deeply  moved. 

"  I  've  got  some  of  its  dear  little  things  all  ready  for  it  now," 
said  Jane.     "  You  must  see  them." 

"  I  should  dearly  love  to." 

"  I  never  thought,  Rose,  that  I  should  have  it." 

Rose  meditated.  "  They  come,"  said  she,  "  mostly  to  them 
that  does  n't  think." 

"  There  's  only  one  thing.  Rose.  I  'm  afraid.  Oh,  I  'm  so 
dreadfully  afraid." 

"  I  should  n't  be  afraid,"  said  Rose,  "  if  it  was  me." 

"  It 's  because  I  've  been  so  happy." 

"  You  '11  be  'appier  still  when  it 's  come.  It  'd  make  all  the 
difference  to  me  if  I  'ad  a  child.  But  that 's  wliat  I  have  n't 
and  never  shall  have." 

"You  don't  know.     You  don't  know." 

"  Yes.  I  do  know."  Rose's  mouth  trembled.  She  glanced 
unaware  at  the  pillow  that  lay  so  smooth  beside  her  own.  "  I 
'ave  n't  let  on  to  him  how  much  I  want  it.  I  would  n't "  (Rose 
steadied  her  mouth  to  get  the  words  out) .  "  Not  if  it  was 
ever  so." 

"  You  darling,"  said  Jane,  and  kissed  her,  and  at  that  Rose 
burst  into  tears. 

"  I  ought  n't  to  be  keeping  you  here,"  she  said.  And  they 
left  the  bedroom. 

"  Are  n't  you  coming  in  ?  "  said  Jane. 


303  THECEEATORS 

Eose  had  turned  away  from  her   at  Tanqueray's   door. 

"  I  can't/'  she  whispered.  "  Not  with  me  eyes  all  swelled 
up  like  this." 

She  went  down-stairs  to  her  little  kitchen,  where  in  the  half- 
darkness  she  crouched  down  beside  Minny  who,  with  humped 
shoulders  and  head  that  nodded  to  the  fender,  dozed  before  the 
fire. 


XXXVII 

LAURA  GUNNING  was  writing  a  letter  to  Tanqueray  to 
congratulate  hira  on  his  book  and  to  explain  why  she  had 
not  come  to  his  birthday  party.  It  was  simply  impossible  to 
get  off  now.  Papa,  she  said,  could  n't  be  left  for  five  minutes, 
not  even  with  the  morning  paper. 

It  was  frightfully  hard  work  getting  all  this  into  any  intel- 
ligible form  of  words;  getting  it  down  at  all  was  difficult. 
For  the  last  hour  she  had  been  sitting  there,  starting  and  trem- 
bling at  each  rustle  of  the  paper.  Mr.  Gunning  could  not  settle 
down  to  reading  now.  He  turned  his  paper  over  and  over  again 
in  the  vain  search  for  distraction ;  he  divided  it  into  parts  and 
became  entangled  in  them;  now  he  would  cast  them  from  him 
and  trample  them  under  his  feet ;  and  now  they  would  be  flap- 
ping about  his  head;  he  would  be  covered  and  utterly  concealed 
in  newspaper. 

It  was  a  perpetual  wind  of  newspaper,  now  high,  now  low; 
small,  creeping  sounds  that  rose  to  a  crescendo;  rushing,  rip- 
ping, shrieking  sounds  of  agitated  newspaper,  lacerating  Laura's 
nerves,  and  murderous  to  the  rhythm  of  her  prose. 

Tears  fell  from  Laura's  eyes  as  she  wrote;  they  dropped, 
disfiguring  her  letter.  Her  head  ached.  It  was  always  aching 
now.  And  when  she  tried  to  write  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
weaving  string  out  of  the  grey  matter  of  her  brain,  with  the 
thread  breaking  all  the  time. 

At  four  o'clock  she  rose  wearily  and  began  to  get  tea  ready. 
Nina  was  coming  to  tea  that  afternoon.  It  was  something  to 
look  forward  to,  something  that  would  stave  off  the  pressure 
and  the  pain. 

Her  tether  had  stretched ;  it  had  given  her  inches ;  but  this 
was  the  end  of  it.  She  did  not  see,  herself,  now,  any  more 
than  Nina  or  Jane  or  Tanqueray  saw,  how  she  was  to  go  on. 

303 


304  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S 

She  did  not  know  how,  for  instance,  she  was  to  face  the  terrible 
question  of  finance.  For  the  last  six  months  she  had  not 
written  any  paragraphs.  Even  if  Papa  had  not  made  it  im- 
possible for  her  to  write  them,  her  head  and  all  the  ideas 
in  it  were  giving  out.  She  had  lost  her  job.  She  was  living 
precariously  on  translation,  which  could  be  done,  she  main- 
tained, when  you  had  n't  any  head  at  all.  She  would  get  twenty 
pounds  for  it,  and  there  would  be  forty,  perhaps,  for  the  book 
which  she  had  been  sitting  up  to  write.  She  did  not  know 
where  the  money  for  next  year  was  coming  from ;  and  there 
were  the  doctor  and  the  chemist  now  to  pay  for  poor  Papa. 

The  doctor  and  the  chemist  had  not  cured  him  of  his  dreams. 
The  dreams  were  incessant,  and  they  were  more  horrid  than 
they  had  ever  been.  She  had  n't  slept  for  fear  of  the  opening 
of  the  door,  and  the  sound  of  the  slow  feet  shuffling  to  her 
bedside,  and  the  face  that  took  on  more  and  more  the  likeness 
of  the  horrors  that  he  dreamed. 

The  dreams,  she  had  gathered,  were  a  very  bad  sign.  She 
had  been  told  that  she  must  be  on  the  look-out;  she  must  not 
leave  him.  She  knew  what  that  meant.  Her  fear  might  take 
shape  any  day  or  any  night. 

Last  night  she  had  moved  her  bed  into  his  room. 

The  doctor  had  looked  grave  when  she  told  him  what  she 
had  done.  There  should  be,  he  said,  an  attendant  for  the  night. 
To  be  on  the  look-out  night  and  day  were  too  much  for  any 
woman.  She  should  husband  her  strength,  for  she  would  want 
it.  She  was  in  for  a  very  long  strain.  For  the  old  man's 
bodily  health  was  marvellous.  He  might  last  like  that  for 
another  ten  years,  and,  with  care,  for  longer. 

Nina  had  been  drawn  apart  into  the  inner  room  to  receive 
this  account  of  Mr.  Gunning.  She  was  shocked  by  the  change 
she  found  in  her  little  friend.  The  Kiddy  was  very  thin.  Her 
pretty,  slender  neck  was  wasted,  and  her  child-like  wrists  were 
flattened  to  tlie  bone.  A  sallow  tint  was  staining  her  whiteness. 
Her  hair  no  longer  waved  in  its  low  curves ;  it  fell  flat  and  limp 
from  tlie  parting.  Her  eyes,  strained,  fixed  in  their  fear,  showed 
a  rim  of  white.     Her  mouth  was  set  tight  in  defiance  of  her  fear. 


THE     CREATORS  305 

Nina  noticed  that  there  was  a  faint,  sagging  mark  on  either 
side  of  it. 

"  Kiddy,"  she  said,  "  how  will  you ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     My  brain  's  all  woolly  and  it  won't  think." 

Laura  closed  her  eyes;  a  way  she  had  when  she  faced  terror. 

"  Nina,  it  was  horrible  yesterday.  I  caught  myself  wish- 
ing   Oh  no,  I  don't;  I  didn't;  I  couldn't;  it  was  some- 
thing else,  not  me.     It  couldn't  have  been  me,  could  it?" 

"  No,   Kiddy,   of   course   it  could  n't." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  could  be  awful. 
Yesterday,  I  did  a  cruel  thing  to  him.  I  took  his  newspaper 
away  from  him." 

She  stared,  agonized,  as  if  her  words  were  being  wrenched 
from   her   with   each   turn   of   a   rack. 

"  I  hid  it.     And  he  cried,  Nina,  he  cried." 

Her  sad  eyes  fastened  on  Nina's;  they  clung,  straining  at 
the  hope  they  saw  in  Nina's  pity. 

"  I  can't  think  how  I  did  it.  I  could  n't  stand  it,  you  know  — 
the  rustling." 

"  Kiddy,"  said  Nina,  "  you  're  going  to  pieces." 

Laura  shook  her  head.  "  Oh  no.  If  I  could  have  peace ; 
if  I  could  only  have  peace,  for  three  days." 

"  You  must  have  it.     You  must  go  away." 

"  How  can  I  go  and  leave  him  ?  " 

"  Tank's  wife  would  come." 

"  Three  days."  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  considering  it,  as  if 
her  mind,  drowning,  snatched  at  that  straw. 

She  let  it  go.  "  No.  It 's  no  use  going  away.  It  would 
make  no  difference." 

She  turned  her  face  from  Nina.  "  In  some  ways,"  she  said, 
"  it 's  a  good  thing  I  've  got  Papa  to  think  of." 

Nina  was  silent.     She  knew  what  Laura  meant. 


XXXVIII 

THEY  had  preserved  as  by  a  compact  a  perpetual  silence 
on  the  subject  of  Owen  Protliero,  But  always,  after  see- 
ing Laura,  Nina  had  forced  herself  to  write  to  him  that  he 
might  know  she  had  been  true  to  her  trust. 

To-night  she  wrote :  "  I  have  done  all  I  can  for  you,  or,  if 
you  like,  for  Laura.  She 's  at  the  breaking  point.  If  you 
think  there  's  anything  you  can  do  for  her  yourself  you  'd  better 
do  it  and  lose  no  time." 

She  wrote  brutally;  for  mixed  with  her  jealousy  there  was  a 
savage  anger  with  Owen  as  the  cause  of  Laura's  suffering.  She 
hated  the  Kiddy,  but  she  could  n't  bear  to  see  her  suffer. 

There  were  two  days  yet  before  the  mail  went ;  but  she  posted 
her  letter  at  once,  while  her  nerve  held  out.  The  thing  done, 
she  sat  up  till  midnight  brooding  over  it.  It  had  taken  all  her 
nerve.  For  she  did  not  want  Prothero  to  come  back,  and  that 
letter  would  bring  him.  Bodily  separation  from  Owen  had  not 
killed  her;  it  had  become  the  very  condition  of  her  life;  for 
there  was  a  soul  of  soundness  in  her.  Her  blood,  so  vehement 
in  its  course,  had  the  saving  impetus  of  recoil. 

She  dreaded  its  dominion  as  the  whipped  slave  dreads  the 
lash. 

Latterly  she  had  detached  herself  even  spiritually  from  Owen. 
She  remembered  what  she  had  been  before,  without  him,  and 
what,  without  him,  she  had  possessed.  Her  genius  was  a  thing 
utterly  removed  from  her,  a  thing  that  belonged  to  Owen  rather 
than  to  her,  since  he  had  said  it  was  his  youth.  She  thought 
of  it  tenderly,  as  of  a  thing  done  for  and  departed;  for  it  was  so 
that  she  had  come  to  think  of  Owen's  youth.  She  was  not  like 
Jane,  she  felt  no  hatred  of  it  and  no  jealousy.  It  had  not  given 
her  cause.  It  had  not  stood  in  her  way.  It  had  not  struggled 
in  her  against  her  passion.     If  it  had,  she  knew  that  she  would 

306 


THE     CEEA  TOES  307 

have  swept  it  aside  and  crushed  it.  It  had  lain  always  at  the 
mercy  of  her  passions ;  she  had  given  it  to  her  passions  to  destroy, 
foreseeing  the  destruction.  But  now  she  relented.  She  felt 
that  she  would  save  it  if  she  could. 

It  was  in  her  hour  of  sanity  and  insight  that  she  had  said 
virginity  was  the  law,  the  indispensable  condition.  Virginity  — 
she  had  always  seen  it,  not  as  a  fragile,  frustrate  thing,  but  as  a 
joyous,  triumphing  energy,  the  cold,  wild  sister  of  mountain 
winds  and  leaping  waters,  subservient  only  to  her  genius,  guard- 
ing the  flame  in  its  secret,  unsurrendered  heart. 

Her  genius  was  the  genius  of  wild  earth,  an  immortal  of 
divinely  pitiful  virgin  heart  and  healing  hand ;  clear-eyed,  swift- 
footed,  a  huntress  of  the  woods  and  the  mountains,  a  runner  in 
the  earth's  green  depths,  in  the  secret,  enchanted  ways.  To  fol- 
low it  was  to  know  joy  and  deliverance  and  peace.  It  was  the  one 
thing  that  had  not  betrayed  her. 

There  had  been  moments,  lately,  when  she  had  had  almost 
the  assurance  of  its  ultimate  return;  when  she  had  felt  the 
stirring  of  the  old  impulse,  the  immortal  instinct;  when  she 
longed  for  the  rushing  of  her  rivers,  and  the  race  of  the  wind 
on  her  mountains  of  the  Marches.  It  would  come  back,  her 
power,  if  she  were  there,  in  the  place  where  it  was  born ;  if  she 
could  get  away  from  streets  and  houses  and  people;  if  she  got 
away  from  Laura. 

But  Laura  was  the  one  thing  she  could  not  get  away  from. 
She  had  to  be  faithful  to  her  trust. 

It  would  be  seven  weeks,  at  the  least,  before  Owen  could  come 
back.  Her  letter  would  take  three  weeks  to  reach  him,  and  he 
would  have  to  make  arrangements.  She  wondered  whether  the 
Kiddy  could  hold  out  so  long. 

All  night  she  was  tormented  by  this  fear,  of  the  Kiddy's  not 
holding  out,  of  her  just  missing  it;  of  every  week  being  one 
more  nail  hammered,  as  she  had  once  said,  into  the  Kiddy's  little 
coffin;  and  it  was  with  a  poignant  premonition  that  she  received 
a  message  from  Addy  Banger  in  the  morning.  Miss  Banger  was 
down-stairs;  she  had  something  to  say  to  Miss  Lempriere;  she 
must  see  her.     She  could  n't  come  up ;  she  had  n't  a  minute. 


308  THECEEATOES 

Addy  stood  outside  on  the  doorstep.  She  was  always  in  a 
violent  hurry  when  on  her  way  to  Fleet  Street,  the  scene  for 
the  time  being  of  her  job.  But  this  morning  her  face  showed 
signs  of  a  profounder  agitation.     She  made  a  rush  at  Nina. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Lempriere,  will  you  go  to  Laura  ?  " 

"Is  she  ill?" 

"No.  He  is.  He's  dying.  He's  in  a  fit.  I  think  it's 
killing   her." 

The  blinds  were  down  when  Nina  reached  the  house  in 
Camden  Town. 

The  fit  —  it  was  apoplexy,  Mrs.  Baxter  informed  her  —  had 
not  been  long.  It  had  come  on,  mercifully,  in  his  sleep.  Mer- 
cifully (Mrs.  Baxter  leant  on  it)  ;  but  Miss  Lempriere  had  better 
go  up  at  once  to  Miss  Gunning. 

Nina  went  without  a  word. 

The  bed  had  been  drawn  into  the  middle  of  the  small  back 
room.  The  body  of  the  old  man  lay  on  it,  covered  with  a  sheet. 
His  head  was  tilted  a  little,  showing  the  prone  arch  of  the  peaked 
nose;  the  jaw  was  bound  with  a  handkerchief.  Already  the 
features  were  as  they  had  been  in  the  days  before  disease  had 
touched  them.  Death  had  constrained  them  to  their  primal 
sanity.     Death  dominated  them  like  a  living  soul. 

The  death-bed  and  its  burden  filled  the  room.  In  the  nar- 
row space  between  it  and  tlie  wall  little  Laura  went  to  and  fro, 
to  and  fro,  looking  for  a  pair  of  white  socks  that  were  not  there 
and  never  had  been.  She  must  find,  she  was  saying,  a  pair  of 
white  socks,  of  clean  white  socks.  They  had  told  her  that  they 
were  necessary. 


XXXIX 

IT  was  on  the  thirtieth  of  July  that  Laura's  father  died. 
Three  weeks  later  Laura  was  living  in  the  room  in  Adelphi 
Terrace  which  had  been  Owen  Prothero's.  Nina  had  taken  her 
away  from  the  house  in  Camden  Town,  where  she  had  sat  alone 
with  her  grief  and  remorse  and  the  intolerable  memory  of  her 
fear.  They  said  that  her  mind  would  give  way  if  she  were  left 
there. 

And  now,  secretly  and  in  a  night,  her  trouble  had  passed  from 
her.  Lying  there  in  Owen's  room,  on  his  bed,  held  as  in  shelter 
by  the  walls  that  had  held  him,  there  had  come  to  her  a  strange 
and  intimate  sense  of  his  presence.  More  strangely  and  more 
intimately  still,  it  assured  her  of  her  father's  presence  and  con- 
tinuance, of  it  being  as  Owen  had  said.  The  wind  from  the 
river  passed  over  her,  lying  there.  It  fell  like  an  aura  of  im- 
mortality. 

After  that  night  the  return  of  her  bodily  health  was  rapid, 
a  matter  of  three  days ;  and  they  said  of  her  that  this  marvellous 
recovery  was  due  to  the  old  man's  death,  to  her  release  from 
the  tension. 

Late  one  afternoon  she  was  sitting  by  herself  at  Owen's  win- 
dow that  looked  out  to  the  sky.  Outside  the  rain  streamed  in 
a  grey  mist  to  the  streets  and  the  river.  At  the  sound  of  it  her 
heart  lifted  with  a  sudden  wildness  and  tremor.  She  started 
when  Nina  opened  the  door  and  came  to  her,  haggard  and  un- 
smiling. 

Nina  was  telling  her  twice  over  to  go  down-stairs.  There 
was  somebody  there  who  had  come  to  see  her.  Wlien  she  asked 
who  it  was,  Nina  answered  curtly  that  she,  Laura,  knew. 

Laura  went  down  to  Nina's  room,  the  room  that  looked  over 
the   river. 

Prothero  stood  by  the  window  with  his  back  to  the  light. 

8(X) 


310  THE     CEEATOES 

She  gave  a  low  sobbing  cry  of  joy  and  fear,  and  stayed  where 
she  had  entered;  and  he  strode  forward  and  took  her  in  his 
arms.  He  held  her  for  a  long  moment,  bending  to  her,  his  lips 
pressed  to  hers,  till  she  drew  back  her  face  suddenly  and  looked 
at  him. 

"  Do  you  know  ?     Has  Nina  told  you  ?  " 

"  I  knew  three  weeks  ago." 

"  Did  she  wire  ?  " 

"Nobody  wired." 

"  Why  have  you  come,  then  ?  " 

"  You  sent  for  me." 

"  Oh  no,  no.  It  was  n't  I.  I  could  n't.  How  could  you  think 
I  would  ?  " 

"  Why   could  n't  you  ?  " 

"  It  would  have  been,"  she  said,  "  a  dreadful  thing  to  do." 

"  That  dreadful  thing  is  what  you  did.  I  heard  you  all 
night  —  the  night  of  the  thirtieth ;  you  were  crying  to  me.  And 
in  the  morning  I  saw  you." 

"  You  saw  me  ?  " 

"  I  saw  you  in  a  little  room  that  I  've  never  seen  you  in. 
You  were  going  up  and  down  in  it,  with  your  hands  held  out, 
like  this,  in  front  of  you.  You  were  looking  for  something. 
And  I  knew  that  I  had  to  come." 

"  And  you  came,"  she  said,  "  just  for  that  ?  " 

"  I  came  —  just  for  that." 

An  hour  later  he  was  alone  for  a  moment  with  Nina.  She 
had  come  in  with  her  hat  and  jacket  on. 

"Do  you  mind,"  she  said,  "if  I  go  out?     I've  got  to  go." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  He  knew  the  nature  of  her 
necessity,  and  she  knew  that  he  knew.  She  stood  confronting 
him  and  his  knowledge  with  a  face  that  never  flinched.  His 
eyes  protested,  with  that  eternal  tenderness  of  his  that  had  been 
her  undoing.     She  steadied  her  voice  under  it. 

"  I  want  you  to  know,  Owen,  that  I  sent  for  you." 

"  It  was  like  your  goodness." 

She  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders.  "  There  was  nothing  else," 
she  said,  "  that  I  could  do." 


THECEEATOKS  311 

That  night,  while  Prothero  and  Laura  sat  together  holding 
each  other's  hands,  Nina  walked  up  and  down  outside  on  the 
Embankment,  in  the  rain.  She  had  said  that  she  was  more 
like  a  man  than  a  woman;  and  with  her  stride  that  gave  her 
garments  recklessly  to  the  rain,  with  her  impetuous  poise,  and 
hooded,  hungry  eyes,  she  had  the  look  of  some  lean  and  vehement 
adolescent,  driven  there  by  his  youth. 

The  next  day,  very  early,  she  went  down  into  Wales,  a  virgin 
to  her  mountains. 

She  had  done  all  she  could. 


XL 

LAUEA  was  staying  at  the  Brodricks.  She  was  to  stay,  Jane 
insisted  on  it,  until  she  was  married.  She  would  have  to 
stay  for  ever  then,  Laura  said.  Her  marriage  seemed  so  far-off, 
so  unlikely,  so  impossible. 

For  Prothero  had  offended  the  powers  that  governed  his 
material  destiny,  the  editors  and  proprietors  of  the  "  Morning 
Telegraph."  A  man  who,  without  a  moment's  notice,  could  fling 
up  his  appointment,  an  appointment,  mind  you,  that  he  had 
obtained,  not  by  any  merit  of  his  own,  but  through  the  grace 
and  favour  of  an  editor's  wife,  an  appointment  that  he  held 
precariously,  almost  on  sufferance,  by  mercy  extended  to  him 
day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  what  could  he  hope  for  from  sane, 
responsible  men  like  Brodrick  and  Levine  ?  Did  he  imagine  that 
appointments  hung  on  lamp-posts  ready  to  his  hand?  Or  that 
they  only  waited  for  his  appearance,  to  fall  instantly  upon  his 
head?  And  that,  if  they  did  fall  on  his  head,  he  could  take 
them  on  and  off  like  his  hat?  And  did  he  think  that  he  could 
play  the  fool  with  a  paper  like  the  "  Morning  Telegraph  "  ? 

These  questions  Brodrick  asked  of  Levine  and  Levine  of  Brod- 
rick, before  the  unspeakably  shocked,  the  unconditionally  assent- 
ing faces  of  John  and  Henry. 

All  the  Brodricks  disapproved  of  Prothero  and  were  annoyed 
with  him  for  flinging  up  his  appointment.  Jane  pleaded  that 
he  had  flung  it  up  because  he  was  fond  of  Laura  and  wanted 
to  marry  her ;  and  she  was  told  that  that  was  all  the  more  reason 
why  he  should  have  stuck  to  it.  They  were  annoyed  with  him 
for  keeping  Laura  hanging  on  when  he  knew  he  could  n't  marry 
her ;  and  tliey  were  annoyed  with  him  for  wanting  to  marry  her 
at  all.     They  admitted  that  it  was  very  sad  for  Laura;  they 

312 


THE     CEEATOES  313 

liked  Laura ;  they  approved  of  Laura ;  she  had  done  her  duty 
by  all  the  family  she  had,  and  had  nearly  died  of  it.  And  when 
Jane  suggested  that  all  Prothero  wanted  was  to  do  the  same, 
they  replied  that  Prothero  had  no  business  to  think  of  having  a 
family  —  they  supposed  that  was  what  it  would  end  in  —  a  man 
who  could  n't  keep  himself,  much  less  a  delicate  wife  and  half- 
a-dozen  children.  There  would  be  half-a-dozen;  there  always 
were  in  cases  like  Prothero's.  And  at  that  Jane  smiled  and  said 
they  would  be  darlings  if  they  were  at  all  like  Laura. 

They  were  annoyed  with  Jane  for  her  championship  of 
Prothero.  They  were  immeasurably  annoyed  with  her  when 
she,  and  Tanqueray,  and  Arnott  Nicholson,  and  Nina  published 
his  poems  —  a  second  volume  —  by  subscription.  They  sub- 
scribed generously,  and  grew  more  resentful  on  the  strength  of 
it.  Jane  pleaded,  but  Brodrick  was  inexorable.  The  more  she 
pleaded  the  more  inexorable  he  was.  This  time  he  put  his  foot 
down,  and  put  it  (as  Jane  bitterly  remarked)  on  poor  Owen 
Prothero's  neck.  It  was  a  neck,  a  stiff  and  obstinate  neck,  that 
positively  invited  the  foot  of  a  stiff  and  obstinate  man. 

Jane  hid  these  things  from  Laura,  who  thought,  poor  inno- 
cent, that  it  was  only  her  luck.  Marriage  or  no  marriage,  she 
was  incredibly  happy.  She  even  persuaded  herself  it  was  as 
well  that  she  could  n't  be  married  if  that  was  to  make  her  hap- 
pier. She  distrusted  happiness  carried  to  such  a  preposterous 
pitch. 

She  was  sitting  with  Jane  one  evening,  by  the  October  fire- 
light, in  the  room  where  her  friend  lay  quietly. 

"  Do  you  remember.  Jinny,  how  we  were  all  in  love  with 
George,  you  and  I  and  Nina  and  poor  old  Caro?  Caro  said  it 
was  our  apprenticeship  to  the  master." 

Jane  remembered. 

"  He  was  training  us ;  I  really  think  he  was,"  said  Laura, 
still  reminiscent.  "  Can't  you  hear  him  saying,  '  Come  on, 
come  on,  what  the  dickens  does  it  matter  if  I  do  see  you?  It's 
got  to  be  somebody  and  it  had  much  better  be  me.  I  shan't 
snigger.  But  I  'm  going  to  make  you  squirm  as  much  as  you 
can  squirm.     You  've  got  to  know  what  it  feels  like.'     I  think 


314  THE     CREATORS 

he  was  positively  proud  of  us  when  we  did  come  on.  J  can't 
imagine  him  taking  any  other  view.  And  after  all,  you  know, 
he  did  n't  snigger." 

She  pondered.  "  He 's  an  abominable  husband,  but  he  's  a 
glorious  friend." 

Jane  assented.     He  was  glorious  and  abominable. 

Laura's  face  grew  tender  in  meditation.  She  was  no  longer 
thinking  of  George  Tanqueray. 

"  There 's  one  awful  fear  I  have  with  Owen.  I  shan't  be 
ready  in  time  when  he  's  all  nicely  disembodied  and  on  his  way 
to  heaven.  I  see  him  stopped  at  some  uninteresting  station, 
and  sitting  there  waiting  —  patiently  waiting  —  for  me  to  dis- 
embody myself  and  come  on.     It  '11  take  me  ages." 

"  It  always  was  difficult  to  get  you  off,"  Jane  murmured. 

"  I  know.  And  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  were  keeping  him  back 
when  he  was  trying  to  catch  a  train." 

"  I  imagine  he 's  pretty  sure  of  his  train." 

"  The  truth  is  Owen  does  n't  really  wait.  He  's  always  in 
his  train  and  out  of  it,  so  to  speak." 

"  And  your  disembodying  yourself,  darling,  is  only  a  question 
of  time." 

"  And  time,"  said  Laura,  "  does  n't  exist  for  Owen." 

But  time  was  beginning  to  exist  for  Owen.  He  felt  the 
pressure  of  the  heavy  days  that  divided  him  from  Laura.  He 
revolted  against  this  tyranny  of  time. 

And  Erodrick,  the  lord  of  time,  remained  inexorable  for  two 
months. 

Long  before  they  were  ended,  little  Laura,  with  a  determina- 
tion as  inexorable  as  Brodrick's,  had  left  Brodrick's  house.  To 
the  great  disgust  and  scandal  of  the  Brodricks  she  had  gone 
back  to  her  rooms  in  Camden  Town,  where  Prothero  was  living 
in  the  next  house  with  only  a  wall  between  them. 

Then  (it  was  in  the  middle  of  October,  when  Henry  was 
telling  them  that  Jane  must  on  no  account  be  agitated)  Brod- 
rick  and  Jane  nearly  quarrelled  about  Prothero.  She  said  that 
he  was  cruel,  and  that  if  Owen  went  into  a  consumption  and 
Laura  died  of  hunger  it  would  be  all  his  fault.     And  when  he 


THE     CKEA  TOES  315 

tried  to  reason  gently  with  her  she  went  off  into  a  violent  fit  of 
hysterics.  The  next  day  Brodrick  had  a  son  born  to  him,  a 
whole  month  before  Henry  had  expected  anything  of  the  kind. 

At  first  Brodrick  was  more  than  ever  enraged  with  Prothero 
for  tampering  with  other  people's  families  like  that.  Jane  had 
to  go  very  near  to  death  before  his  will  was  broken.  It  broke, 
though,  at  the  touch  of  her  weak  arms  round  his  neck,  at  the 
sight  of  her  tortured  body,  and  at  her  voice,  sounding  from  the 
doors  of  death  and  birth,  imploring  him  to  do  something  for 
Owen  Prothero. 

Jane  had  hardly  had  time  to  recover  before  Prothero  got 
work  again  on  Brodrick's  paper.  Laura  said  they  owed  that  to 
Jinny's  baby. 

They  were  married  in  ISTovember  before  Jinny's  baby  could 
be  christened.  It  was  a  rather  sad  and  strange  little  wedding, 
in  the  parish  church  of  Camden  Town,  with  Brodrick  to  give 
away  the  bride,  and  Caro  Bickersteth  for  bridesmaid,  and  Tan- 
queray  for  best  man.  Nina  was  not  there.  She  had  sent  Laura 
a  cheque  for  two  hundred  pounds  two  months  ago  —  the  half  of 
her  savings  —  and  told  her  to  go  and  marry  Owen  with  it  at 
once,  and  she  had  torn  it  up  in  a  fury  when  Laura  sent  it  back. 
She  could  do  all  that;  but  she  could  not  go  and  see  Laura  and 
Owen  getting  married. 

The  two  had  found  a  lodging  in  an  old  house  in  Hampstead, 
not  far  from  the  Consumption  Hospital.  Laura  had  objected 
to  the  hospital,  but  Owen  refused  to  recognize  it  as  a  thing  of 
fear.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  house.  It  topped  a  rise, 
at  the  end  of  the  precipitous  lane  that  curls  out  of  the  great 
modern  High  Street.  It  stood  back  in  its  garden,  its  narrow, 
flat-eyed  windows  staring  over  the  wall  down  the  lane, 

Laura  was  n't  sure  that  she  quite  liked  it. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  "  she  said,  as  he  paused  before 
this  house. 

"  I  'm  looking  at  that,"  said  Prothero. 

He  pointed  to  an  old,  disused  iron  gate,  and  to  the  design, 
curl  within  curl  of  slender,  aspiring  curves,  that  grew  and 
branched  and  overflowed,  in  tendrils  of  almost  tremulous  grace, 


316  THE     CEEATORS 

and  in  triple  leaves,  each  less  like  a  leaf  than  a  three-tongued 
flame.  Insubstantial  as  lace-work  against  the  green  background 
of  the  garden,  it  hung  rather  than  stood  between  its  brick  pil- 
lars, its  edges  fretted  and  fringed  with  rust,  consumed  in  a  del- 
icate decay.  A  stout  iron  railing  guarded  this  miracle  of  art 
and  time.  Thus  cut  off  from  the  uses  of  life,  it  gave  to  the 
place  an  air  of  almost  unbearable  mystery  and  isolation;  it 
stirred  the  sense  of  mortality,  of  things  that  having  passed 
through   that   doorway   would   not   return. 

"  That  house  looks  and  feels  as  if  it  had  ghosts  in  it,"  she 
said, 

"  So  it  has.  Not  the  ghosts  of  people  who  have  died.  The 
ghosts  of  people  who  have  never  been  born.  The  people,"  he 
said,  "  who  come  through  the  iron  gate." 

And  as  she  looked  at  it  again  and  at  the  untrodden  grass 
behind  it,  she  felt  that  this  masterpiece  of  iron  tortured  into 
beauty  was  an  appropriate  symbol  of  their  life.  Of  Owen's, 
rather  than  of  hers.  Closed  as  it  was  to  all  corporeal  creatures, 
there  yet  went  through  it  presences,  intelligences,  the  august 
procession  of  the  dreams. 

It  was  flanked  by  a  postern  door,  a  little  humble  door  in  the 
wall  of  the  garden.  That  was  the  door,  Laura  said,  through 
which  her  little  humble  dreams  would  go  out  into  the  world 
to  make  their  living. 

"  Poor  Owen,"  she  said,  "  it 's  the  door  you  '11  have  to  go 
through." 

He  smiled. 

"  And  the  other,"  he  said,  "  is  the  door  I  shall  come  back 
through  when  I  'm  gone." 

That  was  what  she  could  n't  bear  to  think  of,  the  necessity 
she  laid  on  him  of  going,  as  it  were,  for  ever  through  the  postern 
door.  He  was  after  all  such  a  supernatural,  such  a  disembodied 
thing.  He  had  at  times  the  eyes  of  a  young  divinity  innocent 
of  creation,  untouched  by  the  shames  and  terrors  of  the  apparent 
world.  And  she  knew  it  was  the  desire  they  had  for  each  other 
that  had  brought  him  back  from  his  divine  borders  and  that 
held  him  in  her  world.     There  were  moments  when  she  felt 


THE     CEEA  TORS  317 

that  he  maintained  his  appearance  there  by  an  effort  so  intense 
that  it  must  be  torture. 

And  he  would  have  to  work  for  her,  doing  dreadful  things 
down  in  Fleet  Street.  Every  day  she  would  see  him  go  down 
the  green  walk,  and  out  through  the  postern  gate,  into  the  alien 
and  terrible  places  of  the  incarnate.  She  felt  that  she  had 
brought  mortality  upon  an  immortal  thing.  She  had  bound  this 
winged  and  radiant  spirit  with  the  weight  of  her  sad  star. 

But  there  came  to  her  a  wonderful  day  when  he  brought  her 
home,  through  the  little  humble  door  in  the  wall  of  the  garden ; 
when,  shut  in  their  room,  he  took  her  to  himself.  He  laid  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  she  closed  her  eyes.  He  bowed  his 
head  over  her  and  his  breath  was  on  her  mouth  and  she  gave 
her  face  to  him.  His  hands  trembled  holding  her,  and  she  felt 
upon  her  their  power  and  their  passion. 

And  she  knew  that  it  was  not  her  body  alone  that  he  sought 
for  and  held,  but  the  soul  that  was  her  womanhood.  It  stood 
before  him,  a  new-born  Eve,  naked  and  unafraid  on  the  green 
plots  of  Eden.  It  looked  at  him,  and  its  eyes  were  tender  with 
desire  and  pity.  It  was  tremulous  as  a  body  inhabited  by  leap- 
ing light  and  flame. 

She  knew  that  in  them  both  the  tlame  burned  singly. 


XLI 

SHE  was  aware  how  wonderful  the  thing  was  that  had  hap- 
pened to  her,  how  it  stood  solitary  in  the  world. 

It  was  not  so,  she  knew,  with  any  of  the  others.  It  was  not 
so  with  Nina  or  with  Tanqueray.  It  was  not  so  even  with  Jane. 
Jane  had  taken  into  her  life  an  element  of  tumult  and  division. 
The  Lord  her  God  (as  Tanqueray  had  once  told  her)  was  a  con- 
suming fire.  Married  she  served  a  double  and  divided  flame. 
For  Laura  and  Prothero  the  plots  of  Eden  lay  green  for.  ever 
inside  the  iron  gate,  and  all  heaven  was  held  within  the  four 
walls  of  a  room. 

They  had  established  themselves,  strictly  speaking,  in  three 
rooms,  two  for  work  and  one  for  sleep.  From  the  standpoint 
of  tangible  requirements,  three  rooms  on  a  silent  upper  floor 
was  their  idea  of  a  perfect  lodging.  It  was  Nina's,  it  had  been 
Tanqueray's  and  Jane's.  A  house,  Laura  declared,  was  all  very 
well  for  a  poet  like  poor  Nicky  (what  would  poor  Nicky  be 
without  his  house?)  ;  but  Jinny's  house  was  a  curse  to  her,  and 
Tanks  did  not  regard  his  as  an  unmixed  blessing,  though  she 
would  have  died  rather  than  say  so  to  Tank's  wife. 

Tank's  wife  had  her  own  theory  of  Laura's  attitude.  Laura 
was  making  (as  she  herself  had  once  made)  the  best  of  a  bad 
job.  Eose  had  the  worst  opinion  of  Mr.  Prothero's  job;  the 
job  that  sent  him  into  Fleet  Street  in  all  weathers  and  at  all 
hours  of  the  day  and  night,  and  was  yet  compatible  with  his 
hanging  about  at  home,  doing  nothing,  four  days  out  of  the 
seven.  Rose  was  very  fond  of  Laura  and  of  Prothero.  She 
had  always  felt  that  they  were  interesting  persons,  persons  who 
might  any  day  be  ill  and  require  to  be  taken  care  of,  who  re- 
quired a  good  deal  of  being  taken  care  of,  as  it  was.  Rose 
superintended  their  removal.  Rose,  very  earnestly  and  gravely, 
took  Laura's  housekeeping  in  hand.     To  Rose,  Laura's  house- 

318 


THE     CREATOES  319 

keeping  was  a  childish  thing.  She  enlightened  its  innocence 
and  controlled  its  ardours  and  its  indiscretions.  Spring  chicken 
on  a  Tuesday  and  a  Wednesday,  and  all  Thursday  nothing  but 
such  stuff  as  rice  and  macaroni  was,  said  Eose,  a  flyin'  out- 
rageous to  extremes.  She  taught  them  the  secret  of  a  breast 
of  veal,  stewed  in  rice  (if  rice  they  must  have),  and  many 
another  admirable  and  economical  contrivance. 

Eose,  fertile  in  contrivances,  came  and  went  a  great  deal  to 
the  house  with  the  iron  gate.  She,  who  had  once  felt  that  there 
was  nothing  in  common  between  her  and  her  husband's  friends, 
was  being  gradually  drawn  to  them.  Jane's  baby  had  been  the 
link  with  Jane;  Mr.  Gunning  had  been  the  link  with  Laura; 
she  shared  with  Laura  and  Prothero  the  rare  genius  of  devotion 
to  a  person.  Eose  was  shocked  and  bewildered  by  many  of  the 
little  ways  of  the  creators,  but  she  understood  their  way.  They 
loved  each  other  more  than  they  loved  anything  they  created. 
They  loved  each  other  as  she  loved  Tanqueray,  but  with  a  per- 
fect comprehension. 

Their  happiness  was  ominously  perfect.  And  as  time  went 
on  Eose  shook  her  wise  head  over  them.  They  had  been  married 
six  months,  and  Eose  was  beginning  to  think  what  a  difference 
it  would  make  if  Laura  was  to  have  a  little  baby,  and  she  could 
come  in  sometimes  and  take  care  of  it.  But  Laura  had  n't  a 
little  baby,  and  was  n't  going,  she  said,  to  have  a  little  baby. 
She  did  n't  want  one.  Laura  was  elated  because  she  had  had 
a  book.  She  had  thought  she  was  never  going  to  have  another, 
and  it  was  the  best  book  she  had  ever  had.  Perfection,  within 
her  limits,  had  come  to  her,  now  that  she  had  left  off  thinking 
about  it. 

She  could  n't  have  believed  that  so  many  perfect  things  could 
come  to  her  at  once.  For  Laura,  in  spite  of  her  happiness, 
remained  a  sceptic  at  heart.  She  went  cautiously,  dreading  the 
irony  of  the  jealous  gods. 

Tanqueray  had  bullied  his  publishers  into  giving  a  decent 
price  for  Laura's  book.  And,  to  the  utter  overthrow  of  Laura's 
scepticism,  the  book  went  well.  It  had  a  levity  and  charm  that 
provoked  and  captured  and  never  held  you  for  a  minute  too 


320  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

long.  A  demand  rose  for  more  of  the  same  kind  from  the  same 
author,  and  for  her  earlier  books,  the  ones  that  she  had  got  out 
of  bed  to  write,  and  that  did  n't  and  would  n't  sell. 

For  her  husband's  poems  there  had  been  no  demand  at  all. 
He  was  not  unknown,  far  from  it.  He  fell  conspicuously,  illus- 
triously, between  the  reviewers  who  reviled  him,  and  the  public 
who  would  have  none  of  him.  If  they  had  only  let  him  alone. 
But  they  did  n't.  There  was  no  poet  more  pursued  and  per- 
secuted than  Owen  Prothero.  He  trailed  bleeding  feet,  like  a 
scapegoat  on  all  the  high  mountains.  He  brought  reproach  and 
ridicule  on  the  friends  who  defended  him,  on  Jane  Holland,  and 
on  Nina  Lempriere  and  Tanqueray,  which  was  what  he  minded 
most  of  all. 

He  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether,  at  this  rate,  there  would 
be  any  continued  demand  for  his  paragraphs,  or  for  any  of  the 
work  he  did  for  the  "  Morning  Telegraph."  His  editors  were 
by  no  means  satisfied.  If  only  he  could  write  columns  and  para- 
graphs as  Laura  wrote  them.  But  he  could  n't  really  write 
them  properly  at  all.  And  the  dreadful  irony  of  it  was  that 
when  he  ought  to  be  writing  paragraphs,  poems  would  come; 
and  that  when  he  was  writing  poems  he  would  have  to  leave 
off,  as  often  as  not,  to  finish  a  paragraph. 

Laura  said  to  herself  that  she  was  going  to  make  an  end  of 
all  that. 

Her  gift  was  so  small  that  it  could  n't  in  any  way  crown  him ; 
there  was  no  room  on  his  head  for  anything  besides  his  own 
stupendous  crown.  But,  if  she  could  n't  put  it  on  his  head,  her 
poor  gift,  she  could  lay  it,  she  could  spread  it  out  at  his  feet, 
to  make  his  way  softer.  He  had  praised  it;  he  had  said  that 
in  its  minute  way  it  was  wonderful  and  beautiful;  and  to  her 
the  beauty  and  the  wonder  of  it  were  that,  though  it  was  so 
small,  it  could  actually  make  his  gift  greater.  It  could  actually 
provide  the  difficult  material  conditions,  sleep  and  proper  food, 
an  enormous  leisure  and  a  perfect  peace. 

She  was  a  little  sore  as  she  thought  how  she  had  struggled 
for  years  to  get  things  for  poor  Papa,  and  how  he  had  had  to 
do  without  them.     And  she  consoled  herself  by  thinking,  after 


THE     CREATORS  321 

all,  how  pleased  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  known ;  and  how 
fond  he  had  been  of  Owen,  and  how  nice  Owen  had  always  been 
to   him. 

One  evening  she  brought  all  the  publishers'  letters  and  the 
cheques,  and  laid  them  before  Owen  as  he  sat  in  gloom. 

"  It  looks  as  if  we  were  going  to  make  lots  of  money." 

"  We !  " 

"  Yes,  we ;  you  and  I.     Is  n't  it  funny  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  it's  funny  at  all,"  said  Owen.  "It  might 
be  —  a  little  funny,  if  I  made  it  and  not  you." 

"Darling  —  that  would  be  funnier  than   anything." 

Her  laughter  darted  at  him,  sudden  and  sweet  and  shrill, 
and  it  cut  him  to  the  heart.     His  gravity  was  now  portentous. 

"  The  beauty  of  it  is,"  she  persisted,  defying  all  his  gravity, 
"  that,  if  I  can  go  on,  you  won't  have  to  make  it.  And  I  shall 
go  on,  I  feel  it ;  I  feel  myself  going.  I  've  got  a  dream,  Owen, 
such  a  beautiful  dream.  Some  day,  instead  of  sitting  there 
breaking  your  heart  over  those  horrid  paragraphs,  instead  of 
rushing  down  to  Fleet  Street  in  the  rain  and  the  sleet  and  tlie 
fog,  you  shall  ramp  up  and  down  here,  darling,  making  poems, 
and  it  won't  matter  if  you  wear  the  carpet  out,  if  you  wear 
ten  carpets.  You  shall  make  poems  all  day  long,  and  you  — 
shall  —  never  —  write  —  another  —  paragraph  again.  You  do 
them  very  badly." 

"  You  need  n't  remind  me  of  that,"  said  Owen  in  his  gloom. 

"  But,  surely,  you  don't  want  to  do  them  well  ? 

"  You  know  what  I  want." 

"  You  talk  as  if  you  had  n't  got  it." 

She  crouched  down  beside  him  and  laid  her  face  against  his 
knee. 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  nice  of  you,"  she  said,  "  not  to  be  pleased 
when  I  'm  pleased." 

His  eyes  lightened.  His  hand  slid  down  to  her  and  caressed 
her  hair. 

"  I  am  pleased,"  he  said.  "  That 's  what  I  wanted,  to  see  you 
going  strong,  doing  nothing  but  the  work  you  love.  All  the 
same " 


322  THE     CEEATOES 

"  Can't  you  understand  that  I  don't  want  to  see  my  wife 
working  for  me  ?  " 

She  laughed  again.  "  You  're  just  like  that  silly  old  Tanks. 
He  could  n't  bear  to  see  his  wife  working  when  she  wanted  to ; 
so  he  wouldn't  let  her  work,  and  the  poor  little  soul  got  ill 
with  not  having  what  she  wanted.  You  did  n't  want  me  to 
get  ill,  did  you  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  take  care  of  you  —  well  or  ill.  I  wanted  to 
work  for  you  all  my  life  long." 

"  And  you  wanted  me  to  be  happy  ?  " 

"  More  than  anything  I  wanted  you  to  be  happy." 

"  But  you  did  n't,  and  you  don't  want  me  to  be  happy  —  in 
my  own  way  ?  " 

He  rose  and  lifted  her  from  the  floor  where  she  crouched,  and 
held  her  so  tight  to  him  that  he  hurt  her. 

"My  little  one,"  he  murmured,  "can't  you  understand  it? 
Can't  you  see  it  ?     You  're  so  small  —  so  small." 


XLII 

FOE  six  months  Jane  concentrated  all  her  passion  on  her 
little  son.  The  Brodricks,  who  had  never  been  surprised 
at  anything,  owned  that  this  was  certainly  not  what  they  had 
expected.  Jane  seemed  created  to  confound  their  judgments 
and  overthrow  their  expectations.  Neither  Frances  Heron  nor 
Sophy  Levine  was  ever  possessed  by  the  ecstasy  and  martyr- 
dom of  motherhood.  They  confessed  as  much.  Frances  looked 
at    Sopliy    and    said,    "\Vhoever    would    have    thought    that 

Jinny ?  "     And  Sophy  looked  at  Frances  and  replied,  "  My 

dear,  I  didn't  even  think  she  could  have  had  one.  She's  a 
marvel  and  a  mystery." 

The  baby  was  a  link  binding-  Jane  to  her  husband's  family. 
She  was  a  marvel  and  a  mystery  to  them  more  than  ever,  but 
she  was  no  longer  an  alien.  The  tie  of  the  flesh  was  strong. 
She  was  Hugh's  wife,  who  had  gone  near  to  death  for  him, 
and  had  returned  in  triumph.  She  was  glorified  in  their  eyes 
by  all  the  powers  of  life. 

The  baby  himself  had  an  irresistible  attraction  for  them. 
From  John's  house  in  Augustus  Eoad,  from  Henry's  house  in 
Eoehampton  Lane,  from  the  house  of  the  Levines  in  St.  John's 
Wood,  there  was  now  an  incessant  converging  upon  Brodrick's 
house.  The  women  took  an  unwearying  and  unwandering  in- 
terest in  Hugh's  amazing  son.  (It  was  a  girl  they  had  ex- 
pected.) First  thing  in  the  morning,  or  at  noon,  or  in  the 
early  evening  at  his  bed-time,  John's  wife,  Mabel,  came  with 
her  red-eyed,  sad-hearted  worship.  Winny  Heron  hung  about 
him  and  Jane  for  ever.  Jane  discovered  in  Sophy  and  in  Fran- 
ces an  undercurrent  of  positive  affection  that  set  from  her  child 
to  her. 

John  Brodrick  regarded  her  with  solemn  but  tender  approval, 
and  Henry  (who  might  have  owed  her  a  grudge  for  upsetting 

323 


324  THECEEATORS 

his  verdict),  Henry  loved  her  even  more  than  he  approved.  She 
had  performed  her  part  heyond  all  hope ;  she  linked  the  genera- 
tions; she  was  wedded  and  made  one  with  the  solidarity  of  the 
Brodricks. 

Jane  with  a  baby  was  a  mystery  and  a  marvel  to  herself. 
She  spent  days  in  worshipping  the  small  divinity  of  his  person, 
and  in  the  contemplation  of  his  heartrending  human  attributes. 
She  doubted  if  there  were  any  delirium  of  the  senses  to  compare 
with  the  touch  of  her  hands  upon  his  body,  or  of  his  fingers 
on  her  breast.  She  fretted  herself  to  fever  at  his  untimely 
weaning.  She  ached  with  longing  for  the  work  of  his  hands 
upon  her,  for  the  wonder  of  his  eyes,  opening  at  her  for  a 
moment,  bright  and  small,  over  the  white  rim  of  her  breast. 

In  his  presence  there  perished  in  her  all  consciousness  of 
time.  Time  was  nothing  to  him.  He  laid  his  diminutive  hands 
upon  the  hours  and  destroyed  them  for  his  play. 

You  would  have  said  that  time  M^as  no  more  to  Jane  than  it 
was  to  the  baby.  For  six  months  she  watched  with  indifference 
the  slaughter  and  ruin  of  the  perfect  hours.  For  six  months 
she  remained  untormented  by  the  desire  to  write.  Brodrick 
looked  upon  her  as  a  woman  made  perfect,  wholly  satisfied  and 
appeased. 

At  the  end  of  six  months  she  was  attacked  by  a  mysterious 
restlessness  and  fatigue.  Brodrick,  at  Henry's  suggestion,  took 
her  to  the  seaside.     They  were  away  six  weeks. 

She  came  back  declaring  herself  strong. 

But  there  was  something  about  her  that  Henry  did  not  like. 
She  was  if  anything  more  restless;  unnaturally  (he  said)  ab- 
stracted when  you  spoke  to  her;  hardly  aware  of  you  at  times. 
John  had  noticed  that,  too,  and  had  not  liked  it.  They  had  all 
noticed  it.  They  were  afraid  it  must  be  worrying  Hugh.  She 
seemed,  Sophy  said,  to  be  letting  things  go  all  round.  Frances 
thought  she  was  not  nearly  so  much  taken  up  with  the  baby. 
When  she  mentioned  it  to  Henry  he  replied  gravely  that  it  was 
physical.     It  would  pass. 

And  yet  it  did  not  pass. 


THECEEATORS  325 

The  crisis  came  in  May  of  nineteen-six,  when  the  baby  was 
seven  months  old.     It  all  turned  on  the  baby. 

Every  morning  about  nine  o'clock,  now  that  summer  was 
come,  you  found  him  in  the  garden,  in  his  perambulator,  bare- 
footed and  bareheaded,  taking  the  air  before  the  sun  had  power. 
Every  morning  his  nurse  brought  him  to  his  mother  to  be  made 
much  of ;  at  nine  when  he  went  out,  and  at  eleven  when  he  came 
in,  full  of  sleep.  In  and  out  he  went  through  the  French  win- 
dow of  Jane's  study,  which  opened  straight  on  to  the  garden. 
He  was  wheeled  processionally  up  and  down,  up  and  down  the 
gravel  walk  outside  it,  or  had  his  divine  seat  under  the  lime- 
tree  on  the  lawn.     Always  he  was  within  sight  of  Jane's  windows. 

One  Sunday  morning  (it  was  early,  and  he  had  not  been  out 
for  five  minutes,  poor  lamb)  Jane  called  to  the  nurse  to  take 
him  away  out  of  her  sight. 

"  Take  him  away,"  she  said.  "  Take  him  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  where  I  can't  see  him." 

Brodrick  heard  her.  He  was  standing  on  the  gravel  path, 
contemplating  his  son.  It  was  his  great  merit  that  at  these 
moments,  and  in  the  presence  of  other  people,  he  betrayed  no 
fatuous  emotion.  And  now  his  face,  fixed  on  the  adorable 
infant,  was  destitute  of  all  expression.  At  Jane's  cry  it  flushed 
heavily. 

The  flush  was  the  only  sign  he  gave  that  he  had  heard  her. 
Without  a  word  he  turned  and  followed,  thoughtfully,  the  wind- 
ings of  the  exiled  perambulator.  From  her  place  at  the  writing- 
table  where  she  sat  tormented,  Jane  watched  them  go. 

Ten  minutes  later  Brodrick  appeared  at  the  window.  He 
was  about  to  enter. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  she  cried.     "  Not  you  !  " 

He  entered. 

"  Jinny,"  he  said  gently,  "  what 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

His  voice  made  her  weak  and  tender. 

"  I  want  to  write  a  book,"  she  said.     "  Such  a  pretty  book." 

"It's  that,  is  it?" 

He  sighed  and  stood  contemplating  her  in  ponderous  thouo-Jit. 


326  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S 

Jane  took  up  some  pens  and  played  with  them. 

"  I  can't  write  if  you  look  at  me  like  that,"  she  said. 

"  I  won't  look  at  you ;  but  I  'm  going  to  talk  to  you." 

He  sat  down.  She  saw  with  terror  his  hostility  to  the  thing 
she  was  about  to  do. 

"  Talking  's  no  good,"  she  said.     "  It 's  got  to  be  done." 

"  I  don't  see  the  necessity." 

"  It 's  not  one  of  those  things  that  can  be  seen." 

"No.  But  look  here "  He  was  very  gentle  and  for- 
bearing.    "  Need  you  do  it  quite  so  soon  ?  " 

"  So  soon?     If  I  don't  do  it  now,  when  shall  I  do  it?  " 

He  did  not  answer  her.  He  sat  looking  at  her  hands  in  their 
nervous,   restless   play. 

Her  grave  eyes,  under  their  flattening  brows,  gazed  thought- 
fully at  him.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  lifted  a  little  with 
their  wing-like,  quivering  motion.  Two  moods  were  in  her; 
one  had  its  home  in  her  brooding,  tragic  eyes,  one  in  her  mys- 
terious, mocking  lips. 

"  It 's  no  use,  dear,"  she  said.  "  You  '11  never  turn  me  into 
that  sort  of  woman  ?  " 

"  What  sort  of  woman  ?  " 

"  The  sort  of  woman  you  like." 

He  waited  in  silence  for  what  she  would  say  next. 

"  It 's  not  my  fault,  it 's  yours  and  Henry's.  You  should  n't 
have  made  me  go  away  and  get  strong.  The  thing  always 
comes  back  to  me  when  I  get  strong.     It 's  me,  you  see." 

"  No,  Jinny,  the  whole  point  is  that  you  're  not  strong. 
You  're  not  fit  for  anything  creative." 

At  that  she  laughed. 

"  You  're  not,  really.     WTiy,  how  old  is  that  child  ?  " 

"  Six  months.     No  —  seven." 

"  Well,  Henry  said  it  would  take  you  a  whole  year  to  get 
over   it." 

"  I  thought  I  should  never  get  over  it.     We  were  both  wrong." 

"  My  child,  it 's  palpable.  You  're  nervy  to  the  last  degree. 
I  never  saw  you  so  horribly  restless." 

"  Not  more  so  than  when  I  first  knew  Baby  was  coming." 


THECEEATORS  327 

"Well,  quite  as  much/' 

She  gave  him  a  little  look  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"  Quite  as  much/'  she  said.  "  And  you  were  patient  with 
me  then." 

He  maintained  a  composure  that  invited  her  to  observe  how 
extremely   patient  he   was   now. 

"  And  do  you  remember  —  afterwards  —  before  he  came  — 
how  quiet  I  was  and  how  contented  ?  I  was  n't  a  bit  nervy,  or 
restless,  or  —  or  troublesome." 

He  smiled,  remembering. 

"  Can't  you  see  that  anything  creative  —  everything  creative 
must  be  like  that  ?  " 

He  became  grave  again,  having  failed  to  follow  her. 

"  Presently,  if  this  thing  goes  all  right,  I  shall  be  quite,  quite 
sane.  That's  the  way  it  takes  you  just  at  first.  Then,  when 
you  feel  it  coming  to  life  and  shaping  itself,  you  settle  down 
into  a  peace." 

JSTow  he  understood. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  you  pay  for  it  after." 

"  My  dear,  we  pay  for  everything  —  after." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  The  movement  withdrew  her 
a  little  from  Brodrick's  unremitting  gaze. 

"  There  are  women  —  angels  naturally  —  who  become  devils 
if  they  can't  have  children.  I  'm  an  angel  —  you  know  I  'm  an 
angel  —  but  I  shall  be  a  devil  if  I  can't  have  this.  Can't  you 
see  that  it 's  just  as  natural  and  normal  —  for  me  ?  " 

"  It 's  pretty  evident,"  he  said,  "  that  you  can't  have  both. 
You  were  n't  built  to  stand  the  double  strain " 

"  And  you  mean  —  you  mean " 

"  I  mean  that  it  would  be  better  for  you  if  you  could  keep 
off  it  for  a  while.     At  any  rate  while  the  child  's  young." 

"  But  he  '11  be  young,  though,  for  ages.  And  if  —  if  there  are 
any  more  of  him,  there  '11  be  no  end  to  the  keeping  off." 

"  You  need  n't  think  about  that,"  he  said. 

"  It  would  be  all  very  well,"  she  said,  "  if  it  were  simpler ; 
if  either  you  or  I  could  deal  with  the  thing,  if  we  could  just 
wring  its  neck  and  destroy  it.     I  would  if  it  would  make  you 


328  THECKEATORS 

any  happier,  but  I  can't.  It's  stronger  than  I.  I  can't  keep 
off'  it." 

He  pondered.  He  was  trying,  painfully,  to  understand  the 
nature  of  this  woman  whom  he  thought  he  knew,  whom,  after 
all,  it  seemed,  he  did  not  know. 

"  You  used  to  understand,"  she  said.     "  Why  can't  you  now  ?  " 

Wliy  could  n't  he  ?  He  had  reckoned  with  her  genius  when 
he  married  her.  He  had  honestly  believed  that  he  cared  for  it 
as  he  cared  for  her,  that  Jinny  was  not  to  be  thought  of  apart 
from  her  genius.  He  had  found  Henry's  opinion  of  it  revolt- 
ing, absurd,  intolerable.  And  imperceptibly  his  attitude  had 
changed.  In  spite  of  himself  he  was  coming  round  to  Henry's 
view,  regarding  genius  as  a  malady,  a  thing  abnormal,  disas- 
trous, not  of  nature;  or  if  normal  and  natural  —  for  Jinny  — 
a  thing  altogether  subordinate  to  Jinny's  functions  as  a  wife 
and  mother.  There  was  no  sane  man  who  would  not  take  that 
view,  who  would  not  feel  that  nature  was  supreme.  And  Jinny 
had  proved  that  left  to  nature,  to  her  womanhood,  she  was 
sound  and  perfect.  Jinny's  genius  had  had,  as  he  put  it,  pretty 
well  its  fling.     It  was  nature's  turn. 

Under  all  his  arguments  there  lurked,  unrecognized  and  un- 
suspected, the  natural  man's  fear  of  the  thing  not  of  nature, 
of  its  dominion,  coming  between  him  and  her,  slackening,  per- 
haps sundering  the  tie  of  flesh.  Through  the  tie  of  flesh, 
insensibly,  he  had  come  to  look  on  Jinny  as  his  possession. 

"  What  would  you  do,"  he  said,  "  if  the  little  chap  were  to 
get  ill?" 

She  turned  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"111?     Wliy  couldn't  you  tell  me  he  was  ill?" 

"  But  he  is  n't.     I  was  only " 

"  Does  Henry  say  he  's  ill  ?  " 

"Henry?     Oh  Lord,  no." 

"  You  're  lying.     I  '11  go  to  him  and  see 


She  made  a  rush  for  the  window.  He  sprang  after  her  and 
cauglit  her.     She  struggled  in  his  arms. 

"Jinny,    you    little   fool.     There's   nothing  —  nothing 

He's  bursting  with  health." 


THE     CREATORS  329 

"  What  did  you  mean,  then  ?  " 

"  I  meant  —  supposing  he  were  ill " 

"  You  meant  to  frighten  me  ?  " 

She  sat  down  and  he  saw  her  fighting  for  her  breath.  He 
knelt  beside  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  murmuring  inarticu- 
late things  in  his  terror.  At  his  touch  she  turned  to  him  and 
kissed  him. 

"  Hugh,  dear,"  she  said,  "  don't  frighten  me  again.  It 's  not 
necessary." 

All  that  week,  and  for  many  weeks,  she  busied  herself  with 
the  child  and  with  the  house.  It  was  as  if  she  were  trying, 
passionately,  to  make  up  for  some  brief  disloyalty,  some  lapse  of 
tenderness. 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden  she  flagged;  she  was  overcome  by  an 
intolerable  fatigue  and  depression.  Brodrick  was  worried,  but 
he  kept  his  anxiety  to  himself.  He  was  afraid  now  of  doing 
or  saying  the  wrong  thing. 

One  Saturday  evening  Jinny  came  to  him  in  his  study.  She 
carried  the  dreadfully  familiar  pile  of  bills  and  tradesmen's 
books. 

''  Is  it  those  horrible  accounts  ?  "  he  said. 

She  was  so  sick,  so  white  and  harassed,  so  piteously  humble, 
that  he  knew.     She  had  got  them  all  wrong  again. 

"  I  did  try  to  keep  them,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  try.     Leave  the  damned  things  alone." 

"  I  have  left  them,"  she  wailed.     "  And  look  at  them." 

He  looked.  A  child,  he  thought,  could  have  kept  them 
straight.  They  were  absurdly  simple.  But  out  of  their  sim- 
plicity, their  limpid,  facile,  elementary  innocence,  Jinny  had 
wrought  fantasies,  marvels  of  confusion-,  of  intricate  complexity. 

That  was  bad  enough.  But  it  was  nothing  to  the  disorder 
of  what  Jinny  called  her  own  little  affairs.  There  seemed  at 
first  to  be  no  relation  between  Jinny's  proved  takings  and  the 
sums  that  Jinny  was  aware  of  as  having  passed  into  her  hands. 
And  then  Brodrick  found  the  cheques  at  the  back  of  a  drawer, 
where  they  had  lain  for  many  months ;  forgotten,  Brodrick  said, 
as  if  they  had  never  been. 


330  THE     CKE  A  TOE'S 

"  I  'm  dreadful,"  said  Jinny. 

"You  are.  What  on  earth  did  you  do  before  you  married 
me  ?  " 

"  George  Tanqueray  helped  me." 

He  frowned. 

"  Well,  you  can  leave  it  to  me  now,"  he  said. 

"  It  takes  it  out  of  me  more  than  all  the  books  I  ever  wrote." 

That  touched  him,  and  he  smiled  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  If,"  said  she,  "  we  only  had  a  housekeeper." 

"  A  housekeeper  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  housekeeper  you  want." 

She  put  her  face  to  his,  brushing  his  cheek  with  a  shy  and 
fugitive  caress. 

"  You  really  ought,"  she  said,  "  to  have  married  Gertrude." 

"  You  've  told  me  that  several  times  already." 

"  She  would  n't  have  plagued  you  night  and  day." 

He  owned  it. 

"  Is  n't  it  rather  a  pity  that  she  ever  left?  " 

"  Why,  what  else  could  the  poor  woman  do  ?  " 

"  Stay,  of  course." 

He  had  never  thought  of  that  solution;  he  would,  if  he  had 
been  asked,  have  judged  it  unthinkable. 

"  Supposing,"  said  Jinny,  "  you  asked  her,  very  nicely,  to 
come  back  —  don't  you  think  that  would  save  us  ?  " 

No;  he  never  would  have  thought  of  it  himself;  but  since 
she  had  put  it  that  way,  as  saving  them,  saving  Jinny,  that  was 
to  say ;  well,  he  owned,  would  n't  it  ? 

"  I  say,  but  would  n't  you  mind  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"Why  should  I?"  said  she. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  which  was  a  Sunday,  Brod- 
rick  appeared  at  the  house  in  Augustus  Eoad.  He  asked  to  see 
Miss  Collett,  who  was  staying  there  with  her  cousin. 

She  came  to  him,  as  she  used  to  come  to  him  in  his  study, 
with  her  uplifted,  sacrificial  face,  holding  herself  stiffly  and 
tensely,  half  in  surrender,  half  resisting  the  impulse  that  drew 
her. 

He  laid  the  situation  before  her,  curtly. 


THECEEATOES  331 

"  If  you  were  to  come  back/'  he  said,  "  it  would  solve  all  our 
problems." 

She  reddened,  suspecting,  as  was  her  way,  significance  in 
everything  that  Brodrick  said.  Did  he,  she  wondered,  recognize 
that  she  too  had  her  problem ;  and  was  he  providing  for  her  too 
the  simple  and  beautiful  solution?  It  was  possible,  then,  she 
argued  inwardly,  that  in  some  way  that  was  not  any  other  man's 
way,  in  some  immaterial  and  perfect  way,  he  cared.  There  was 
after  all  a  tie.  He  desired,  as  she  had  desired,  to  preserve  it 
in  its  purity  and  its  perfection. 

Putting  all  that  aside,  it  remained  certain  that  she  was  indis- 
pensable. 

There  was  a  deepening  in  the  grey  shallows  of  her  eyes;  they 
darted  such  light  as  comes  only  from  the  deeps.  Her  upper  lip 
quivered  with  a  movement  that  was  between  a  tremor  and  a 
smile,  subtler  than  either. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  she  said,  "  that  Mrs.  Brodrick  would  n't 
mind?" 

"  Jinny  ?     Oh  dear  me,  no.     It  was  her  idea." 

Her  face  changed  again.  The  light  and  flush  of  life  with- 
drew. Her  sallowness  returned.  She  had  the  fixed  look  of  one 
who  watches  the  perishing  under  her  eyes  of  a  beloved  dream. 

"  And  you,"  she  said,  as  if  she  read  him,  "  are  not  quite  sure 
whether  you  really  want  me  ? " 

"  Should  I  ask  you  if  I  did  n't  want  you  ?  My  only  doubt 
was  whether  you  would  care  to  come.     Will  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  intent  look.  It  bore  some  faint 
resemblance  to  the  look  he  had  for  Jane.  Her  light  rose.  She 
met  his  gaze  with  a  flame  of  the  sacrificial  fire. 

"  I  '11  do  whatever  you  want,"  she  said. 

That  was  how  Gertrude  came  back  to  Brodrick's  house. 

"  And  now,"  Jane  wrote  to  Sophy  Levine,  "  we  're  all  happy." 

But  Sophy  in  her  wisdom  wondered.  As  soon  as  she  heard 
of  Gertrude's  installation  she  rushed  over  to  Putney  at  the 
highest  speed  of  her  motor-car. 

She  found  Jane  on  the  lawn,  lying  back  in  her  long  chair. 
An  expression  of  great  peace  was  on  her  face. 


332  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  K  S 

She  had  been  writing.  Some  sheets  of  manuscript  lay  under 
the  chair  where  she  had  thrust  them  out  of  Sophy's  sight.  She 
had  heard  the  imperious  trump  of  the  motor-car,  sounding  her 
doom  as  it  swung  on  to  the  Heath. 

Sophy  looked  at  her  sister-in-law  and  said  to  herself  that, 
really,  Henry  did  exaggerate.  She  could  see  nothing  in  the  least 
abnormal  about  Jane.  Jane,  when  you  took  her  the  right  way, 
was  just  like  anybody  else. 

Gertrude  was  out.  She  had  gone  over  to  Eoehampton  to  see 
Frances.     Sophy  judged  the  hour  propitious. 

"  It  works,"  said  Jane  in  answer  to  her  question ;  "  it  works 
beautifully.  You  don't  know,  Sophy,  what  a  hand  that  woman 
has.  Just  go  indoors  and  look  about  you.  You  can  see  it 
working." 

"  I  could  n't  stand  another  woman's  hand  in  my  house,"  said 
Sophy,  "  however  beautifully  it  worked." 

"  Is  it  my  house  ?  In  a  sense  it 's  hers.  There  's  no  doubt 
that  she  made  it  about  as  perfect  as  a  house  could  be.  It  was 
like  a  beautiful  machine  that  she  had  invented  and  kept  going. 
Nobody  but  Gertrude  could  have  kept  it  going  like  that.  It  was 
her  thing  and  she  loved  it." 

Sophy's  face  betrayed  her  demure  understanding  of  Gertrude's 
love. 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Jane,  "  could  n't  do  my  work,  and  it 's  been 
demonstrated  that  I  can't  do  hers.  I  don't  believe  in  turning 
people  out  of  their  heaven-appointed  places  and  setting  them 
down  to  each  other's  jobs." 

"  If  you  could  convince  me  that  Gertrude's  heaven-appointed 
place  is  in  your  husband's  house " 

"  She  's  proved  it." 

"  He  was  n't  your  husband  then." 

"  Don't  you  see  that  his  being  my  husband  robs  the  situation 
of  its  charm,  the  vagueness  that  might  have  been  its  danger  ?  " 

"  Jinny  —  it  never   answers  —  a   double   arrangement." 

*'  Why  not  ?  Why  not  a  quadruple  arrangement  if  neces- 
sary ?  " 


THE     CREATORS  333 

"That  would  be  safe.  It's  the  double  thing  that  isn't. 
You  've  got  to  think  of  Hugh." 

"  Poor  darling,  as  if  I  did  n't." 

"  I  mean  —  of  him  and  her." 

"  Together  ?  Is  that  your Oh,  I  can't.  It 's  unthink- 
able." 

"  You  might  have  thought  of  her,  then." 

"I   did.     I   did  think  of  her." 

"  My  dear  —  you  know  what 's  the  matter  with  her  ?  " 

"  That,"  said  Jane  slowly,  "  is  what  I  thought  of.  She  might 
have  been  happy  if  it  had  n't  been  for  me." 

"  That  was  out  of  the  question,"  said  Sophy,  with  some 
asperity. 

"  Was  it  ?     Well,  anyhow,  she  's  happy  now." 

"Jinny,  you're  beyond  anything.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  was  what  you  did  it  for  ?  " 

"  Partly.  I  had  to  have  some  one.  But,  yes,  that 's  why  I 
had  Gertrude." 

"  Well,  if  you  did  it  for  Gertrude  it  was  cruel  kindness. 
Encouraging  her  in  her  preposterous " 

"Don't,  Sophy.  There  couldn't  be  anything  more  innocent 
on  earth." 

"  Oh,  innocent,  I  dare  say.  But  I  've  no  patience  witli  the 
folly  of  it." 

"  I  have.     It  might  so  easily  have  been  me." 

"  You  ?     I  don't  see  you  making  a  fool  of  yourself." 

"  I  do.  I  can  see  myself  making  an  eternal  fool.  You 
would  n't,  Sophy,  you  have  n't  got  it  in  you.  But  I  could  cry 
when  I  look  at  Gertrude.  We  oughtn't  to  be  talking  about  it. 
It 's  awful  of  us.     We  've  no  right  even  to  know." 

"  My  dear,  when  it 's  so  apparent !  Wliat  does  Hugh  think 
of  it?" 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  've  given  her  away  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  imagine  he  knows." 

"  If  he  does,  he  would  n't  give  her  away  to  me." 

"  I  'm  afraid,  dear,  she  gave  herself  away." 


334  THECKEATOES 

"Don't  you  see  that  that  makes  it  all  the  worse  for  her? 
It  makes  it  horrible.  Think  how  she  must  have  suffered  before 
she  could.  The  only  chance  for  her  now  is  to  have  her  back, 
to  face  the  thing,  and  let  it  take  its  poor  innocent  place,  and 
make  it  beautiful  for  her,  so  that  she  can  endure  it  and  get  all 
the  happiness  she  can  out  of  it.  It 's  so  little  she  can  get,  and 
I  owe  it  to  her.     I  made  her  suffer." 

Sophy  became  thoughtful. 

"  After  all.  Jinny,"  she  said,  "  you  are  rather  a  dear.  All 
the  same,  if  Gertrude  was  n't  a  good  woman " 

"  But  she  is  a  good  woman.     That 's  why  she  's  happy  now." 

Sophy  arranged  her  motor-veil,  very  thoughtfully,  over  and 
around  a  smile. 

This  conversation  had  thrown  light  on  Jinny,  a  light  that  to 
Sophy's  sense  was  beautiful  but  perilous,  hardly  of  the  earth. 


XLIII 

DOWN  in  the  garden  at  Eoehampton,  Gertrude  and  Frances 
Heron  were  more  tenderly  and  intimately  discussing  the 
same  theme. 

Frances  was  the  only  one  of  the  Brodricks  with  whom  tender- 
ness and  intimacy  were  possible  for  one  in  Gertrude's  ease.  She 
was  approachable  through  her  sufferings,  her  profound  affec- 
tions, and  the  dependence  of  her  position  that  subdued  in  her 
her  racial  pride. 

Gertrude  had  confessed  to  a  doubt  as  to  whether  she  ought 
or  ought  not  to  have  gone  back. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Frances,  "  that  it  was  very  wise." 

"  Perhaps  not,   from  the   world's   point  of  view.     If  I  had 

thought  of  that "  she  stopped  herself,  aware  that  scandal 

had  not  been  one  of  any  possibilities  contemplated  by  the  Brod- 
ricks. 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  it,  T  assure  you,"  said  Frances.  "  I 
only  wondered  whether  it  were  right."  She  elucidated  her 
point.     "  For  you,   for  your  happiness,   considering " 

"  I  'm  not  thinking  of  my  own  happiness,  or  I  could  n't  do  it. 
No,  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  was  thinking"  —  her  voice  sank  and 
vibrated,  and  rose,  exulting,  to  the  stress  — "  of  his." 

Frances  looked  at  her  with  gentle,  questioning  eyes.  Hugh's 
happiness,  no  doubt,  was  the  thing;  but  she  wondered  how  Ger- 
trude's presence  was  to  secure  it. 

Slowly,  bit  by  bit,  with  many  meditative  pauses,  many  sink- 
ings of  her  thought  into  the  depths,  as  if  she  sounded  at  each 
point  her  own  sincerity,  Gertrude  made  it  out. 

"  Mrs.  Brodrick  is  very  sweet  and  very  charming,  and  I  know 
they  are  devoted.  Still  "  —  Gertrude's  pause  was  poignant  — 
"  still  —  she  is  unusual." 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Frances. 

335 


336  THECREATOES 

"  And  one  sees  that  the  situation  is  a  little  difficult." 

Frances  made  no  attempt  to  deny  it. 

"  It  always  is,"  said  Gertrude,  "  when  the  wife  has  an  im- 
mense, absorbing  interest  apart.  I  can't  help  feeling  that 
they've  come,  both  of  them,  to  a  point  —  a  turning  point, 
where  everything  depends  on  saving  her,  as  much  as  possible, 
all  fret  and  worry.  It 's  saving  him.  There  are  so  many  things 
she  tries  to  do  and  can't  do;  and  she  puts  them  all  on  him." 

"  She  certainly  does,"  said  Frances. 

"  If  I  'm  there  to  do  them,  it  will  at  least  prevent  this  con- 
tinual friction  and  strain," 

"  But  you,  my  dear  —  you  ?  " 

"  It  does  n't  matter  about  me."  She  was  pensive  over  it. 
"  If  I  solve  his  problem " 

"  It  will  be  very  hard  for  you." 

"  I  can  bear  anything  if  he  's  happy." 

Frances  smiled  sadly.  She  had  had  worse  things  than  that 
to  bear. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  if  3^ou  know  —  if  you  're  sure  that 
you  care  —  in  that  way " 

"  I  did  n't  know  until  the  other  day,  when  I  came  back.  It 's 
only  when  you  give  up  everything  that  you  really  know." 

Frances  was  silent.  If  any  woman  knew,  she  knew.  She 
had  given  up  her  husband  to  another  woman.  For  his  hap- 
piness she  had  given  the  woman  her  own  name  and  her  own 
place,  when  she  might  have  shamed  her  by  refusing  the  divorce 
he  asked  for. 

"  It  would  n't  have  been  right  for  me  to  come  back,"  said 
Gertrude,  "if  I  hadn't  been  certain  in  my  own  heart  that  I 
can  lift  this  feeling,  and  make  it  pure."  Her  voice  thickened 
slightly.  "It  is  pure.  I  think  it  always  was.  Why  should  I 
be  ashamed  of  it  ?  If  there 's  anything  spiritual  in  me,  it 's 
that." 

Frances  was  not  the  woman  to  warn  her  of  possible  delusion ; 
to  bint  at  the  risk  run  by  the  passion  that  disdains  and  disowns 
its  kindred  to  the  flesh. 

She  raised  her  eyes  of  tragedy,  tender  with  unfallen  tears. 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S  337 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  're  a  very  noble  woman." 

Across  the  narrow  heath-path,  with  a  lifted  head,  with  flame 
in  her  heart  and  in  her  eyes,  Gertrude  made  her  way  to  Brod- 
riek's   house. 

And  once  again,  with  immutable  punctuality,  the  silver- 
chiming  clock  told  out  the  hours;  fair  hours  made  perfect  by 
the  spirit  of  order  moving  in  its  round.  It  moved  in  the  garden, 
and  the  lawn  was  clean  and  smooth ;  the  roses  rioted  no  longer ; 
the  borders  and  the  paths  were  straight  again.  Indoors,  all 
things  on  which  Gertrude  laid  her  hand  slid  sweetly  and  inau- 
dibly  into  their  place.  The  little  squat  god  appeared  again  within 
his  shrine;  and  a  great  peace  came  upon  Brodrick  and  on  Brod- 
rick's  house. 

It  came  upon  Jane.  She  sank  into  it  and  it  closed  over  her, 
a  marvellous,  incredible  peace.  At  the  turning  point  when 
everything  depended  upon  time,  when  time  was  all  she  wanted 
and  was  the  one  thing  she  could  not  get,  suddenly  time  was 
made  new  and  golden  for  her,  it  was  given  to  her  without  meas- 
ure, without  break  or  stint. 

Only  once,  and  for  a  moment,  Gertrude  Collett  intruded  on 
her  peace,  looking  in  at  Jane's  study  window  as  she  passed  ou 
soft  feet  through  the  garden. 

"  Are  you  happy  now  ?  "  she  said. 


XLIV 

SHE  moved  with  such  soft  feet,  on  so  fine  and  light  a  wing 
that,  but  for  the  blessed  effects  of  it,  they  were  hardly  aware 
of  her  presence  in  the  house.  Owing  to  her  consummate  genius 
for  self-effacement,  Brodrick  remained  peculiarly  unaware.  The 
bond  of  her  secretaryship  no  longer  held  them.  It  had  lapsed 
when  Brodrick  married,  and  Gertrude  found  herself  superseded 
as  the  editor  grew  great. 

For  more  than  a  year  Brodrick's  magazine  had  had  a  staff  of 
its  own,  and  its  own  office  wliere  Miss  Addy  Eanger  sat  in 
Gertrude's  seat.  Addy  no  longer  railed  at  the  impermanence 
and  mutability  of  things.  Having  attained  the  extreme  pitch 
of  speed  and  competence,  she  was  now  established  as  Brodrick's 
secretary  for  good.  She  owed  her  position  to  Jane,  a  position 
from  which,  Addy  exultantly  declared,  not  even  earthquakes 
could  remove  her. 

You  would  have  said  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  could 
remove  the  "  Monthly  Eeview."  It  looked  as  if  Brodrick's 
magazine,  for  all  its  dangerous  splendour,  had  come  to  stay, 
as  if  Brodrick,  by  sheer  fixity  and  the  power  he  had  of  getting 
what  he  wanted,  would  yet  force  the  world  to  accept  his  pre- 
posterous dream.  He  had  gone  straight  on,  deaf  to  his  brother- 
in-law's  warning  and  remonstrance;  he  had  not  checked  for  one 
moment  the  flight  of  his  fantasy,  nor  changed  by  one  nervous 
movement  his  high  attitude.  Month  after  month,  the  appear- 
ance of  the  magazine  was  punctual,  inalterable  as  the  courses  of 
the  moon. 

Bold  as  Brodrick  was,  there  was  no  vulgar  audacity  about  his 
venture.  The  magazine  was  not  hurled  at  people's  heads;  it 
was  not  thrust  on  them.  It  was  barely  offered.  By  the  restraint 
and  dignitv  of  his  advertisements  the  editor  seemed  to  be  saying 

338 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  K  S  339 

to  his  public,  "There  it  is.  You  take  it  or  you  leave  it.  In 
either  case  it  is  there;  and  it  will  remain  there." 

And  strangely,  inconceivably,  it  did  remain.  In  nineteen-six 
Brodrick  found  himself  planted  with  apparent  security  on  the 
summit  of  his  ambition.  He  had  a  unique  position,  a  reputa- 
tion for  caring,  caring  with  the  candid  purity  of  high  passion, 
only  for  the  best.  He  counted  as  a  power  unapproachable,  im- 
placable to  mediocrity.  Authors  believed  in  him,  adored, 
feared,  detested  him,  according  to  their  quality.  Other  editors 
admired  him  cautiously ;  they  praised  him  to  his  face ;  in  secret 
they  judged  him  preposterous,  but  not  absurd.  They  all 
prophesied  his  failure;  they  gave  him  a  year,  or  at  the  most 
three  years. 

Some  wondered  that  a  man  like  Brodrick,  solid,  if  you  like, 
but  after  all,  well,  of  no  more  than  ordinary  brilliance,  should 
have  gone  so  far.  It  was  said  among  them  that  Jane  Holland 
was  the  power  behind  Brodrick  and  his  ordinary  brilliance  and 
his  most  extraordinary  magazine.  The  imagination  he  dis- 
played, the  fine,  the  infallible  discernment,  the  secret  for  the 
perfect  thing,  were  hers,  they  could  not  by  any  possibility  be 
Brodrick's. 

Caro  Biekersteth,  who  gathered  these  impressions  in  her  con- 
tinuous intercourse  with  the  right  people,  met  them  with  one 
invariable  argument.  If  Brodrick  was  n't  fine,  if  he  was  n't 
perceptive,  if  he  had  n't  got  the  scent,  Caro  challenged  them, 
how  on  earth  did  he  discern  Jane  Holland?  His  appreciation 
of  her,  Caro  informed  one  or  two  eminent  critics,  had  con- 
siderably forestalled  their  own.  He  was  the  first  to  see;  he 
always  was  the  first.  He  had  taken  up  George  Tanqueray  when 
other  editors  would  n't  look  at  him,  when  he  was  absolutely  un- 
known. And  when  Caro  was  reminded  that  there,  at  any  rate, 
Jane  Holland  had  been  notoriously  behind  Brodrick's  back,  and 
that  the  editor  was,  notoriously  again,  in  love  with  her,  Caro 
made  her  point  triumphantly,  maintaining  that  to  be  in  love 
with  Jane  Holland  required  some  subtlety,  if  it  came  to  that; 
and  pray  how,  if  Brodrick  was  devoid  of  it,  did  Jane  Holland 
come  to  be  in  love  with  hwi  ? 


340  THE     CEEATORS 

It  was  generous  of  Caro,  for  even  as  sub-editor  she  was  no 
longer  Brodrick's  right  hand.  To  the  right  and  to  the  left  of 
him,  at  his  back  and  perpetually  before  him,  all  round  about 
him  she  saw  Jane. 

The  wonder  was  that  she  saw  her  happy.  It  was  Jane  who 
observed  to  Caro  how  admirably  they  all  of  them,  she,  Addy 
Eanger,  Gertrude,  Brodrick,  and  those  two  queer  women,  Jane 
Brodrick  and  Jane  Holland,  were  settled  down  into  their  right 
places,  with  everything  about  them  incomparably  ordered  and 
adjusted. 

Jane  marvelled  at  the  concessions  that  had  been  made  to  her, 
at  the  extent  to  which  things  were  being  done  for  her.  Her 
hours  were  no  longer  confounded  and  consumed  in  supervising 
servants,  interviewing  tradespeople,  and  struggling  with  the 
demon  of  finance.  They  were  all,  Jane's  hours,  serenely  and 
equitably  disposed.  She  gave  her  mornings  to  her  work,  a  por- 
tion of  the  afternoon  to  her  son,  and  her  evenings  to  her  hus- 
band. Sometimes  she  sat  up  quite  late  with  him,  working  on 
the  magazine.  Brodrick  and  the  baby  between  them  divided  the 
three  hours  which  were  hers  before  dinner.  The  social  round 
had  ceased  for  Jane.  Brodrick  had  freed  her  from  the  destroy- 
ers, from  the  pressure  of  tlie  dreadful,  clever  little  people.  She 
was  hardly  yet  aware  of  the  more  formidable  impact  of  his 
family. 

WTiat  impressed  her  was  Brodrick's  serene  acceptance  of  her 
friends,  his  authors.  He  was  wonderful  in  his  brilliant,  undis- 
mayed enthusiasm,  as  he  followed  the  reckless  charge,  the  shin- 
ing onset  of  the  talents.  He  accepted  even  Tanqueray's  mur- 
derous, amazing  ironies.  If  Brodrick's  lifted  eyebrows  confessed 
tliat  Tanqueray  was  amazing,  they  also  intimated  that  Brodrick 
remained  perpetually  unamazed. 

But,  as  an  editor,  he  drew  the  line  at  Arnott  Nicholson. 

It  was  the  sensitive  Nicky  who  first  perceived  and  pointed  out 
a  change  in  Jane.  She  moved  among  tliem  abstractedly,  with 
mute,  half  alienated  eyes.  She  seemed  to  have  suifered  some 
spiritual  disintegration  that  was  pain.  She  gave  herself  to 
them  no  longer  whole,  but  piecemeal.     At  times  she  seemed  to 


THE     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S  341 

hold  out  empty,  supplicating  hands,  palms  outward,  showing 
that  she  could  give  no  more.  There  was,  she  seemed  to  say,  no 
more  left  of  her. 

Only  Tanqueray  knew  how  much  was  left ;  knew  of  her  secret, 
imperishable  resources,  things  that  were  hidden  profoundly 
even  from  herself;  so  hidden  that,  even  if  she  gave  him  noth- 
ing, it  was  always  possible  to  him  to  help  himself.  To  him  she 
could  not  change.  His  creed  had  always  been  the  unchange- 
ableness,  the  indestructibility  of  Jinny. 

Still,  he  assented,  smiling,  when  little  Laura  confided  to  him 
that  to  see  Jane  Brodrick  in  Brodrick's  house,  among  Brod- 
ricks,  was  not  seeing  Jinny.  There  was  too  much  Brodrick. 
It  would  have  been  better,  said  Laura,  if  she  had  married  Nicky. 

He  agreed.  There  would  never  have  been  too  much  of 
Nicky.     But  Laura  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  n't  a  question  of  proportion,"  she  said.  "  It  is  n't  that 
there 's  too  much  Brodrick  and  too  little  Jinny.  It 's  simply 
that  Jinny  is  n't  there." 

Jane  knew  how  she  struck  them.  There  was  sadness  for  her, 
not  in  their  reproaches,  for  they  had  none,  but  in  their  recogni- 
tion of  the  things  that  were  impossible.  They  had  always 
known  how  it  would  be  if  she  married,  if  she  was  surrounded  by 
a  family  circle. 

There  was  no  denying  that  she  was  surrounded,  and  that  the 
circle  was  drawing  rather  tight.  And  she  was  planted  there 
in  the  middle  of  it,  more  than  ever  under  observation.  She 
always  had  been ;  she  had  known  it ;  only  in  the  beginning  it 
had  not  been  quite  so  bad.  Allowances  had  been  made  for  her 
in  the  days  when  she  did  her  best,  when  she  was  seen  by  all 
of  them  valiantly  struggling,  deplorably  handicapped;  in  the 
days  when,  as  Brodrick  said,  she  was  pathetic. 

For  the  Brodricks  as  a  family  were  chivalrous.  Even  Frances 
and  Sophy  were  chivalrous;  and  it  had  touched  them,  that  dis- 
mal spectacle  of  Jane  doing  her  sad  best.  But  now  she  was  in 
the  position  of  one  to  whom  all  things  have  been  conceded.  She 
was  in  for  all  the  consequences  of  concession.  Everything  had 
been  done  for  her  that  could  be  done.     She  was  more  than 


342  THECEEATOES 

ever  on  her  honour,  more  than  ever  pledged  to  do  her  part. 
If  she  failed  Brodrick  now  at  any  point  she  was  without  excuse. 
Every  nerve  in  her  vibrated  to  the  touch  of  honour. 

Around  her  things  went  with  the  rhythm  of  faultless  mechan- 
ism. There  was  no  murmur,  no  perceptible  vibration  at  the 
heart  of  the  machine.  You  could  not  put  your  finger  on  it 
and  say  that  it  was  Gertrude.  Yet  you  knew  it.  Time  itself 
and  the  awful  punctuality  of  things  were  in  Gertrude's  hand. 
You  would  have  known  it  even  if,  every  morning  at  the  same 
hour,  you  had  not  come  upon  Gertrude  standing  on  a  chair 
winding  up  the  clock  that  Jane  invariably  forgot  to  wind.  You 
felt  that  by  no  possibility  could  Gertrude  forget  to  wind  up 
anything.  She  herself  was  wound  up  every  morning.  She 
might  have  been  a  clock.  She  was  wound  up  by  Brodrick; 
otherwise  she  was  self-regulating,  provided  with  a  compensation 
balance,  and  so  long  as  Brodrick  wound  her,  incapable  of  going 
wrong.  Jane  envied  her  her  secure  and  secret  mechanism,  her 
automatic  rhythm,  the  delicate  precision  of  her  ways.  Com- 
pared with  them  her  own  performance  was  dangerous,  fantastic, 
a  dance  on  a  tight-rope.  She  marvelled  at  her  own  preternatural 
poise. 

She  was  steady;  they  could  never  say  she  was  not  steady. 
And  they  could  never  say  it  was  not  difficult.  She  had  so  many 
balls  to  keep  going.  There  was  her  novel ;  and  there  was  Brod- 
rick, and  the  baby,  and  Brodrick's  family,  and  her  own  friends. 
She  could  n't  drop  one  of  them. 

And  at  first  there  came  on  her  an  incredible,  effortless  dex- 
terity. She  was  a  fine  juggler  on  her  tight-rope,  keeping  in 
play  her  golden  balls  that  multiplied  till  you  could  have  sworn 
that  she  must  miss  one.  And  she  never  missed.  She  kept  her 
head;  she  held  it  high;  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  tossing  balls, 
and  simply  trusted  her  feet  not  to  swerve  by  a  hair's-breadth. 
And  she  never  swerved. 

But  now  she  was  beginning  to  feel  the  trembling  of  the  per- 
fect balance.  It  was  as  if,  in  that  marvellous  adjustment  of  re- 
lations, she  had  arrived  at  the  pitch  where  perfection  topples 
over.     She  moved  with  tense  nerves  on  the  edge  of  peril. 


THECEEATORS  343 

How  tense  they  were  she  hardly  realized  till  Tanqueray  warned 
her. 

It  was  on  Friday,  that  one  day  of  the  week  when  Brodrick 
was  kept  late  at  the  office  of  the  "  Morning  Telegraph."  And 
it  was  August,  two  months  after  the  coming  of  Gertrude  Collett. 
Tanqueray,  calling  to  see  Jane,  as  he  frequently  did  on  a  Friday, 
about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  found  her  in  her  study,  play- 
ing with  the  baby. 

She  had  the  effrontery  to  hold  the  baby  up,  with  his  little 
naked  legs  kicking  in  Tanqueray's  face.  At  ten  months  old  he 
was  a  really  charming  baby,  and  very  like  Brodrick. 

"Do  you  like  him?"  she  said. 

He  stepped  back  and  considered  her.  She  had  put  her  little 
son  down  on  the  floor,  where,  by  an  absurd  rising  and  falling 
motion  of  his  rosy  hips,  he  contrived  to  travel  across  the  room 
towards  the  fireplace. 

Tanqueray  said  that  he  liked  the  effect  of  him. 

"  The  general  effect  ?     It  is  heartrending." 

"I  mean  his  effect  on  you,  Jinny.  He  makes  you  look  like 
some  nice,  furry  animal  in  a  wood." 

At  that  she  snatched  the  child  from  his  goal,  the  sharp  curb  of 
the  hearthstone,  and  set  him  on  her  shoulder.  Her  face  was 
turned  up  to  him,  his  hands  were  in  her  hair.  Mother  and  child 
they  laughed  together. 

And  Tanqueray  looked  at  her,  thinking  how  never  before  had 
he  seen  her  just  like  that;  never  before  with  her  body,  tall  for 
sheer  slenderness,  curved  backwards,  with  her  face  so  turned, 
and  her  mouth,  fawn-like,  tilting  upwards,  the  lips  half-mock- 
ing, half-maternal. 

It  was  Jinny,  shaped  by  the  powers  of  life. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  he  makes  you  look  like  a  young  Maenad ; 
mad,  Jinny,  drunk  with  life,  and  dangerous  to  life.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

At  that  moment  Gertrude  Collett  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

She  returned  Tanqueray's  greeting  as  if  she  hardly  saw 
him.     Her  face  was  set  towards  Jane  Brodrick  and  the  child. 

"  I  am  going,"  said  Jane,  "  to  give  him  to  any  one  who  wants 


344  THECEEATORS 

him.  I  am  going  to  give  him  to  Miss  Collett.  There  —  you 
may  keep  him  as  long  as  you  like." 

Gertrude  advanced,  impassive,  scarcely  smiling.  But  as  she 
took  the  child  from  Jane,  Tanqueray  saw  how  the  fine  lines  of 
her  lips  tightened,  relaxed,  and  tightened  again,  as  if  her  ten- 
derness were  pain. 

She  laid  the  little  thing  across  her  shoulder  and  went  from 
them  without  a  word. 

"  He  goes  like  a  lamb,"  said  Jane.  "  A  month  ago  he  'd 
have  howled  the  house  down." 

"  So  that 's  how  you  've  solved  your  problem  ?  "  said  Tanque- 
ray, as  he  closed  the  door  behind  Miss  Collett. 

"  Yes.     Is  n't  it  simple  ?  " 

"  Very.     But  you  always  were." 

From  his  corner  of  the  fireside  lounge,  where  he  seated  him- 
self beside  her,  his  eyes  regarded  her  with  a  grave  and  dark 
lucidity.     The  devil  in  them  was  quiet  for  a  time. 

"  That 's  a  wonderful  woman,  George,"  said  she. 

"Not  half  so  wonderful  as  you,"  he  murmured.  (It  was 
what  Brodrick  had  once  said.) 

"  She  's  been  here  exactly  two  months  and  —  it 's  incred- 
ible —  but  I  've  begun  another  book.  I  'm  almost  half 
through." 

His  eyes  lightened. 

"  So  it 's  come  back.  Jinny  ?  " 

"  You  said  it  would." 

"Yes.  But  I  think  I  told  you  the  condition.  Do  you  re- 
member ? "  ' 

She  lowered  her  eyes,  remembering. 

"What  was  it  you  said?" 

"  That  you  'd  have  to  pay  the  price." 

"Not  yet.  Not  yet.  And  perhaps,  after  all,  I  shan't  have 
to.     I  may  n't  be  able  to  finish," 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  've  been  so  happy  over  it." 

Of  a  sudden  there  died  out  of  her  face  the  fawn-like,  wood- 
land look,   the  maternal   wildness,   the   red-blooded   joy.     She 


THECREATOKS  345 

was  the  harassed  and  unquiet  Jinny  whom  he  knew.  It  was  so 
that  her  genius  dealt  with  her.  She  had  been  swung  high  on  a 
strong  elastic,  luminous  wave;  and  now  she  was  swept  down 
into  its  trough. 

He  comforted  her  as  he  had  comforted  her  before.  It  was, 
he  assured  her,  what  he  was  there  for. 

"  We  're  all  like  that,  Jinny,  we  're  all  like  that.  It 's  no 
worse  than  I  feel  a  dozen  times  over  one  infernal  book.  It 's  no 
more  than  what  you  've  felt  about  everything  you  Ve  ever 
done  —  even  Hambleby." 

"  Yes."     She  almost  whispered  it.     "  It  is  worse." 

"How?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  that  there  is  n't  enough 
time  —  yet,  or  whether  I  've  really  not  enough  strength.  Don't 
tell  anybody  I  said  so.     Above  all,  don't  tell  Henry." 

"  I  should  n't  dream  of  telling  Henry." 

"  You  see,  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  was  walking  on  a  tight- 
rope of  time,  held  for  me,  by  somebody  else,  over  an  abyss ;  and 
that,  if  somebody  else  were  suddenly  to  let  go,  there  I  should 
be  —  precipitated.  And  sometimes  it 's  as  if  I  were  doing  it 
all  with  one  little,  little  brain-cell  that  might  break  any  minute; 
or  with  one  little  tight  nerve  that  might  snap.  It 's  the  way 
Laura  used  to  feel.  I  never  knew  what  it  was  like  till  now. 
Poor  little  Laura,  don't  you  remember  how  frightened  we  al- 
ways were  ?  " 

He  was  frightened  now.  He  suggested  that  she  had  better 
rest.  He  tried  to  force  from  her  a  promise  that  she  would  rest. 
He  pointed  out  the  absolute  necessity  of  rest. 

"  That 's  it.  I  'm  afraid  to  rest.  Lest  —  later  on  —  there 
should  n't  be  any  time  at  all." 

"Why  shouldn't  there  be?" 

"  Things,"  she  said  wildly  and  vaguely,  "  get  hold  of  you. 
And  yet,  you  'd  have  thought  I  'd  cut  myself  loose  from  most." 

"  Cut  yourself  looser." 

"But  — from  what?" 

"  Your  relations." 

"  How  can  I.     I  would  n't  if  I  could." 


346  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

"■  Your  friends,  then  —  Nina,  Laura,  Prothero,  Nicky  —  me." 

"  You  ?     I  can't  do  without  you." 

He  smiled.     "  No,  Jinny.     I  told  you  long  ago  you  could  n't." 

He  was  moved,  very  strangely  moved,  by  her  admission.  He 
had  not  had  to  help  himself  to  that.  She  had  given  it  to  him, 
a  gift  from  the  unseen. 

"  Well,"  he  said  presently,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  struggle  along  somehow," 

"  I  would  n't  struggle  too  hard."  He  meditated,  "  Look  here, 
our  natural  tendency,  yours  and  mine,  is  to  believe  that  it 's 
people  that  do  all  the  mischief,  and  not  that  the  thing  itself 
goes.  We  '11  believe  anything  rather  than  that.  But  we  've  got 
to  recognize  that  it 's  capricious.     It  comes  and  goes." 

"  Still,  people  do  count.  My  brother-in-law,  John  Brodrick, 
makes  it  go.     Whereas  you.  Tanks,  I  own  you  make  it  come," 

"  Oh,  I  make  it  come,  do  I  ?  " 

He  wondered,  "  Wliat  does  Brodrick  do  ?  " 

His  smile  persisted,  so  that  she  divined  his  wonder. 

She  turned  from  him  ever  so  little,  and  he  saw  a  sadness  in 
her  face,  thus  estranged  and  averted.  He  thought  he  knew 
the  source  of  it  and  its  secret.  It  also  was  a  gift  from  the 
unseen. 

Wlien  he  had  left  her  she  went  up-stairs  and  cast  herself 
upon  the  bed  where  her  little  son  lay  naked,  and  abandoned 
herself  to  her  maternal  passion. 

And  Gertrude  stood  there  in  the  nursery,  and  watched  her; 
and  like  Tanqueray,  she  thought  she  knew. 


XLV 

THEEE  were  moments  when  she  longed  to  be  as  Gertrude, 
a  woman  with  one  innocent,  uncomplicated  aim.  She  was 
no  longer  sorry  for  her.  Gertrude's  passion  was  so  sweetly  and 
serenely  mortal,  and  it  was  so  manifestly  appeased.  She  bore 
within  her  no  tyrannous  divinity.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
consuming  and  avenging  will. 

Jane  was  at  its  mercy;  now  that  she  had  given  it  its  head. 
It  went,  it  went,  as  they  said;  and  the  terror  was  now  lest  she 
should  go  with  it,  past  all  bounds. 

Eor  the  world  of  vivid  and  tangible  things  was  receding.  The 
garden,  the  house,  Brodrick  and  his  suits  of  clothes  and  the  un- 
changed garment  of  his  flesh  and  blood,  the  child's  adorable, 
diminutive  body,  they  had  no  place  beside  the  perpetual,  the 
ungovernable  resurgence  of  her  vision.  They  became  insub- 
stantial, insignificant.  The  people  of  the  vision  were  solid,  they 
clothed  themselves  in  flesh ;  they  walked  the  earth ;  the  light 
and  the  darkness  and  the  weather  knew  them,  and  the  grass  was 
green  under  their  feet.  The  things  they  touched  were  saturated 
with  their  presence.  There  was  no  sign  of  ardent  life  they  had 
not. 

And  not  only  was  she  surrounded  by  their  visible  bodies,  but 
their  souls  possessed  her;  she  became  the  soul  of  each  one  of 
them  in  turn.  It  was  the  intimacy,  the  spiritual  warmth  of  the 
possession  that  gave  her  her  first  sense  of  separation,  of  infidelity 
to  Brodrick.  The  immaterial,  consecrated  places  were  invaded. 
It  was  as  if  she  closed  her  heart  to  her  husband  and  her  child. 

The  mood  continued  as  long  as  the  vision  kept  its  grip.  She 
came  out  of  it  unnerved  and  exhausted,  and  terrified  at  herself. 
Bodily  unfaitlifulness  seemed  to  her  a  lesser  sin. 

Brodrick  was  aware  that  she  Avandercd.  That  was  how  he 
had  always  put  it.     He  had  reckoned  long  ago  with  her  propen- 

347 


348  THECEEATORS 

sity  to  wander.  It  was  the  way  of  her  genius;  it  was  part  of 
her  queerness,  of  the  dangerous  charm  that  had  attracted  him. 
He  understood  that  sort  of  thing.  It  was  his  own  comparative 
queerness,  his  perversity,  that  had  make  him  fly  in  the  face  of 
his  family's  tradition.  No  Brodrick  had  ever  married  a  woman 
who  wandered,  who  conceivably  would  want  to  wander. 

And  Jinny  wandered  more  than  ever;  more  than  he  had  ever 
made  allowances  for.  And  with  each  wandering  she  became 
increasingly  difficult  to  find. 

Still,  hitherto  he  had  had  his  certainty.  Her  spirit  might 
torment  him  with  its  disappearances ;  through  her  body,  sur- 
rendered to  his  arms,  he  had  had  the  assurance  of  ultimate  pos- 
session. At  night  her  genius  had  no  power  over  her.  Sleep- 
ing, she  had  deliverance  in  dreams.  His  passion  moved  in  her 
darkness,  sounded  her  depths ;  through  all  their  veils  of  sleep 
she  was  aware  of  him,  and  at  a  touch  she  turned  to  him. 

Now  it  was  he  who  had  no  power  over  her. 

One  night,  when  he  came  to  her,  he  found  a  creature  that 
quivered  at  his  touch  and  shrank  from  it,  fatigued,  averted; 
a  creature  pitifully  supine,  with  arms  too  weary  to  enforce  their 
own  repulse.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  she  gave  a  cry,  little 
and  low,  like  a  child's  whimper.  It  went  to  his  heart  and 
struck  cold  there.  It  was  incredible  that  Jinny  should  have 
given  such  a  cry. 

He  lay  awake  a  long  time.  He  wondered  if  she  had  ceased 
to  care  for  him.  He  hardly  dared  own  how  it  terrified  him,  this 
slackening  of  the  physical  tie. 

He  got  up  early  and  dressed  and  went  out  into  the  garden. 
At  six  o'clock  he  came  back  into  her  room..  She  was  asleep,  and 
he  sat  and  watched  her.  She  lay  with  one  arm  thrown  up 
above  her  pillow,  as  the  trouble  of  her  sleep  had  tossed  her. 
Her  head  was  bowed  upon  her  breast. 

His  watching  face  was  lowered  as  he  brooded  over  the  marvel 
and  the  mystery  of  her.  It  was  Jinny  who  lay  there,  Jinny, 
his  wife,  whose  face  had  been  so  tender  to  him,  whose  body  ut- 
terly  tender,   utterly  compassionate.     He   tried   to   realize   the 


THE     CREATOKS  351 

marvel  and  mystery  of  her  genius.  He  knew  it  to  be  an  immor- 
tal thing,  hidden  behind  the  veil  of  mortal  flesh  that  for  the 
moment  was  so  supremely  dear  to  him.  He  wondered  once 
whether  she  still  cared  for  Tanqueray.  But  the  thought  passed 
from  him;  it  could  not  endure  beside  the  memory  of  her  ten- 
derness. 

She  woke  and  found  his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  They  drew  her 
from  sleep,  as  they  had  so  often  drawn  her  from  some  dark 
corner  where  she  had  sat  removed.  She  woke,  as  if  at  the  urgence 
of  a  trouble  that  kept  watch  in  her  under  her  sleep.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  was  wide-eyed,  alert;  she  gazed  at  him  with  a  lucid 
comprehension  of  his  state.  She  held  out  to  him  an  arm  drow- 
sier than  her  thought. 

"  I  'm  a  brute  to  you,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can't  help  it." 

She  sat  up  and  gathered  together  the  strayed  masses  of  her 
hair. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "  you  could  get  me  a  cup  of  tea 
from  the  servant's  breakfast  ?  " 

He  brought  the  tea,  and  as  they  drank  together  their  mutual 
memories  revived. 

"  I  have,"  said  she,  "  the  most  awful  recollection  of  having 
been  a  brute  to  you." 

"  Never  mind.  Jinny,"  he  said,  and  flushed  with  the  sting  of 
it. 

"  I  don't.  That 's  the  dreadful  part  of  it.  I  can't  feel  sorry 
when  I  want  to.     I  can't  feel  anything  at  all." 

She  closed  her  eyes  helplessly  against  his. 

"  It  is  n't  my  fault.     It  is  n't  really  me.     It 's  It." 

He  smiled  at  this  reference  to  the  dreadful  Power. 

"  The  horrible  and  brutal  thing  about  it  is  that  it  stops  you 
feeling.     It  would,  you  know." 

"  AYould  it?  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it  would  have  made 
that  difl^erence." 

"  That 's  just  the  difference  it  does  make." 

He  moved  impatiently.  "  You  don't  know  what  you  're  talk- 
ing about." 


352  THE     CEEA  TOES 

"  I  would  n't  talk  about  it  —  only  —  it 's  much  better  that 
you  should  know  what  it  is,  than  that  you  should  think  it 's 
what  it  is  n't." 

She  looked  at  him.  His  forehead  still  displayed  a  lowering 
incredulity. 

"  If  you  don't  believe  me,  ask  George  Tanqueray." 

"  George  Tanqueray  ?  " 

His  nerves  felt  the  shock  of  the  thought  that  had  come  to 
him,  just  now  when  he  watched  her  sleep.  He  had  not  expected 
to  meet  Tanqueray  again  so  soon  and  in  the  open. 

"  How  much  do  you  think  he  cares  for  poor  Eose  when  he  's 
in  the  state  I  'm  in  ?  " 

His  face  darkened  as  he  considered  her  question.  He  knew 
all  about  poor  Eose's  trouble,  how  her  tender  flesh  and  blood 
had  been  made  to  pay  for  Tanqueray's  outrageous  genius.  He 
and  Henry  had  discussed  it.  Henry  had  his  own  theory  of  it. 
He  offered  it  as  one  more  instance  of  the  physiological  disabili- 
ties of  genius.  It  was  an  extreme  and  curious  instance,  if  you 
liked,  Tanqueray  himself  being  curious  and  extreme.  But  it 
had  not  occurred  to  Brodrick  that  Henry's  theory  of  Tanqueray 
might  be  applied  to  Jane. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  know  about  George  Tanqueray  ? ''  he 
said.     "  How  could  you  know  a  thing  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  know  because  I  'm  like  him." 

"  No,  Jinny,  it 's  not  the  same  thing.     You  're  a  woman." 

She  smiled,  remembering  sadly  how  that  was  what  George  in 
a  brutal  moment  had  said  she  was  not  to  be.  It  showed  after 
all  how  well  he  knew  her. 

"  I  'm  more  like  George  Tanqueray,"  she  said,  "  than  I  'm  like 
Gertrude  Collett." 

He  frowned,  wondering  what  Gertrude  Collett  had  to  do  with 
it. 

"  We  're  all  the  same,"  she  said.  "  It  takes  us  that  way. 
You  see,  it  tires  us  out." 

He  sighed,  but  his  face  lightened. 

"  If  nothing  's  left  of  a  big  strong  man  like  George  Tanque- 


THECEEATORS  353 

ray,  how  much  do  you  suppose  is  left  of  me  ?  It 's  perfectly 
simple  —  simpler  than  you  thought.     But  it  has  to  be/' 

It  was  simpler  than  he  had  thought.  He  understood  her  to 
say  that  in  its  hour,  by  taking  from  her  all  passion,  her  genius 
was  mindful  of  its  own. 

"  I  see,"  he  said ;  "  it 's  simply  physical  exhaustion." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again. 

He  saw  and  rose  against  it,  insanely  revolted  by  the  sacrifice 
of  Jinny's  womanhood. 

"  It  shows.  Jinny,  that  you  ca^i't  stand  the  strain.  Some- 
thing will  have  to  be  done,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  what  ?  "     Her  eyes  opened  on  him  in  terror. 

His  expression  was  utterly  blank,  utterly  helpless.  He  really 
had  n't  an  idea. 

"  I  don't  know.  Jinny." 

He  suggested  that  she  should  stay  in  bed  for  breakfast. 

She  stayed. 

Down-stairs,  over  the  breakfast-table,  he  presented  to  Ger- 
trude Collett  a  face  heavy  with  his  suffering. 

He  was  soothed  by  Gertrude's  imperishable  tact.  She  was 
glad  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Brodrick  had  stayed  in  bed  for  breakfast. 
It  would  do  her  good. 

At  dinner-time  they  learned  that  it  had  done  her  good.  Ger- 
trude was  glad  again.  She  said  that  Mrs.  Brodrick  knew  she 
had  always  wanted  her  to  stay  in  bed  for  breakfast.  She  saw 
no  reason  why  she  should  not  stay  in  bed  for  breakfast  every 
morning. 

Henry  was  consulted.  He  said,  "  By  all  means.  Capital 
idea."  In  a  week's  time,  staying  in  bed  for  breakfast  had  made 
such  a  difference  to  Jane  that  Gertrude  was  held  once  more  to 
have  solved  the  problem.  Brodrick  even  said  that  if  Jane  al- 
ways did  what  Gertrude  wanted  she  would  n't  go  far  wrong. 

The  Brodricks  all  knew  that  Jane  was  staying  in  bed  for 
breakfast.  The  news  went  the  round  of  the  family  in  three 
days.  It  travelled  from  Henry  to  Frances,  from  Frances  to 
Mabel,  from  Mabel  to  John,  and  from  John  to  Levine  and 


354  THECEEATOKS 

Sophy.  They  received  it  unsurprised,  with  melancholy  com- 
prehension, as  if  tliey  had  always  known  it.  And  they  said  it 
was  very  sad  for  Hugh. 

Gertrude  said  it  was  very  sad  for  everybody.  She  said  it  to 
Brodrick  one  Sunday  morning,  looking  at  him  across  the  table, 
where  she  sat  in  Jane's  place.  At  first  he  had  not  liked  to  see 
her  there,  but  he  was  getting  used  to  it.  She  soothed  him  with 
her  stillness,  her  smile,  and  the  soft  deepening  of  her  shallow 
eyes. 

"  It 's  very  sad,  is  n't  it,"  said  she,  "  without  Mrs.  Brodrick  ?  " 

"  Very,"  he  said.  He  wondered  ironically,  brutally,  what 
Gertrude  would  say  if  she  really  know  how  sad  it  was.  There 
had  been  another  night  like  that  which  had  seemed  to  him  the 
beginning  of  it  all. 

"  May  I  give  you  some  more  tea  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  wonder,"  said  he,  "  how  long  it 's  going 
to  last." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he,  "  it  must  run  its  course." 

"  You  talk  like  my  brother,  as  if  it  were  an  illness." 

"  Well  —  is  n't  it  ? " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?     I  have  n't  got  it." 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  window  that  looked  out  on  to  the 
garden  and  the  lawn  and  Jane's  seat  under  the  lime-tree.  He 
remembered  how  one  summer,  three  years  ago,  before  he  mar- 
ried her,  she  had  lain  there  recovering  from  the  malady  of  her 
genius.     A  passion  of  revolt  surged  up  in  him. 

"  I  suppose,  anyhow,  it 's  incurable,"  he  said,  more  to  himself 
than  to  Gertrude. 

She  had  risen  from  her  place  and  followed  him. 

"Whatever  it  is,"  she  said,  "  it 's  the  thing  we  've  got  most  to 
think  of.     It 's  the  thing  that  means  most  to  her." 

"  To  her  ?  "  he  repeated  vaguely. 

"  To  her,"  she  insisted.  "  I  did  n't  understand  it  at  first ;  I 
can't  say  I  understand  it  now ;  it 's  altogether  beyond  me.  But 
I  do  say  it 's  the  great  thing." 

"  Yes,"  he  assented,  "  it 's  the  great  thing." 


THECREATOES  355 

"The  thing"  (she  pressed  it)  "for  which  sacrifices  must  be 
made." 

Then,  lest  he  should  think  that  she  pressed  it  too  hard,  that 
she  rubbed  it  into  him,  the  fact  that  stung,  the  fact  that  his 
wife's  genius  was  his  dangerous  rival,  standing  between  them, 
separating  them,  slackening  the  tie;  lest  he  should  know  how 
much  she  knew;  lest  he  should  consider  her  obtuse,  as  if  she 
thought  that  he  grudged  his  sacrifices,  she  faced  him  with  her 
supreme  sincerity. 

"  You  know  that  you  are  glad  to  make  them." 
She  smiled,  clear-eyed,  shining  with  her  own  inspiration. 
She  was  the  woman  who  was  there  to  serve  him,  who  knew  hia 
need.  She  came  to  him  in  his  hour  of  danger,  in  his  dark,  sen- 
sual hour,  and  held  his  light  for  him.  She  held  him  to  him- 
self high. 

He  was  so  helpless  that  he  turned  to  her  as  if  she  indeed 
knew. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "  it  does  mean  most  to  her  ?  " 
"  You  know  best,"  she  said,  "  what  it  means." 
It  sank  into  him.     And,  as  it  sank,  he  said  to  himself  that  of 
course  it  was  so ;  that  he  might  have  known  it.     Gertrude  left  it 
sinking. 

He  never  for  a  moment  suspected  that  she  had  rubbed  it  in. 


XLVI 

THEY  were   saying  now  that  Jane   left  her  husband  too 
much  to  Gertrude  Collett,  and  that  it  was  hard  on  Hugh. 

They  supposed,  in  their  unastonished  acceptance  of  the  facts, 
that  things  would  have  to  go  on  like  this  indefinitely.  It  was 
partly  Hugh's  own  fault.  That  was  John  Brodrick's  view  of  it. 
Hugh  had  given  her  her  head  and  she  was  off.  And  when  Jane 
was  off  (Sophy  declared)  nothing  could  stop  her. 

And  yet  she  was  stopped. 

Suddenly,  in  the  full  fury  of  it,  she  stopped  dead. 

She  had  given  herself  ten  months.  She  had  asked  for  ten 
months;  not  a  day  more.  But  she  had  not  allowed  for  friction 
or  disturbance  from  the  outside.  And  the  check  —  it  was  a 
clutch  at  the  heart  that  brought  her  brain  up  staggering  —  came 
entirely  from  the  outside,  from  the  uttermost  rim  of  her  circle, 
fom  Mabel  Brodrick. 

In  January,  the  last  but  three  of  the  ten  months,  Mabel  be- 
came ill.  All  autumn  John  Brodrick's  wife  had  grown  slenderer 
and  redder-eyed,  her  little  high-nosed,  distinguished  face  thin- 
ned and  drooped,  till  she  was  more  than  ever  like  a  delicate 
bird. 

Jane  heard  from  Frances  vague  rumours  of  the  source  of 
Mabel's  malady.  The  powers  of  life  had  been  cruel  to  the  lady 
whom  John  Brodrick  had  so  indiscreetly  married. 

It  was  incredible  to  all  of  them  that  poor  Mabel  should  have 
the  power  to  stay  Jinny  in  her  course.  But  it  was  so.  Mabel 
had  became  attached  to  Jinny.  She  clung,  she  adhered;  she 
drew  her  life  through  Jinny.  It  was  because  she  felt  that  Jane 
understood,  that  she  was  the  only  one  of  them  who  really  knew. 
It  was,  she  all  but  intimated,  because  Jane  was  not  a  Brodrick. 
When  she  was  with  the  others,  Mabel  was  reminded  perpetually 
of  her  failure,  of  how  horriblv  she  had  made  John  suffer.     Not 

'356 


THECEEATOES  357 

that  they  ever  said  a  word  about  it,  but  they  made  her  feel  it; 
whereas  Jinny  had  seen  from  the  first  that  she  suffered  too ;  she 
recognized  her  perfect  right  to  suffer.  And  when  it  all  ended, 
as  it  was  bound  to  end,  in  a  bad  illness,  the  only  thing  that  did 
Mabel  any  good  was  seeing  Jinny. 

That  was  in  January  (they  put  it  all  down  to  the  cold  of 
January)  ;  and  every  day  until  the  middle  of  February  when 
Mabel  was  about  again,  Jane  tramped  across  the  Heath  to  Au- 
gustus Eoad,  always  in  weather  that  did  its  worst  for  Mabel, 
always  in  wind  or  frost  or  rain.     She  never  missed  a  day. 

Sometimes  Henry  was  with  her.  He  made  John's  house  the 
last  point  of  his  round  that  he  might  sit  with  Mabel.  He  had 
never  sat  with  her  before;  he  had  never  paid  very  much  atten- 
tion to  her.  It  was  the  change  in  Henry  that  made  Jane  alive 
to  the  change  in  Mabel;  for  the  long,  lean,  unhappy  man,  this 
man  of  obstinate  distastes  and  disapprovals,  had  an  extreme  ten- 
derness for  all  physical  suffering. 

Since  Mabel's  illness  he  had  dropped  his  disapproving  atti- 
tude to  Jane.  She  could  almost  have  believed  that  Henry  liked 
her. 

One  day  as  they  turned  together  into  the  deep  avenue  of  Au- 
gustus Road,  she  saw  kind  grey  eyes  looking  down  at  her  from 
Henry's  height. 

"  You  're  very  good  to  poor  Mabel,  Jinny,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't  do  much." 

"  Do  what  you  can.     We  shan't  have  her  with  us  very  long." 

«  Henry " 

"  She  does  n't  know  it.  John  does  n't  know  it.  But  I 
thought  I  'd  tell  you." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  've  told  me." 

"  It 's  a  kindness,"  he  went  on,  "  to  go  and  see  her.  It  takes 
her  mind  off  herself." 

"  She  does  n't  complain." 

"  No.  She  does  n't  complain.  But  her  mind  turns  in  on  it- 
self.    It  preys  on  her.     And  of  course  it 's  terrible  for  John." 

She  agreed.  "  Of  course,  it's  terrible  —  for  John."  But  she 
was  thinking  how  terrible  it  was  for  Mabel.     She  wondered,  did 


358  THECEEATORS 

they  say  of  her  and  of  her  malady,  how  terrible  it  was  for 
Hugh  ? '' 

"  This  is  a  great  interruption  to  your  work,"  he  said  presently, 
with  the  peculiar  solemnity  he  accorded  to  the  obvious. 

Her  pace  quickened.  The  frosty  air  stung  her  cheeks  and 
the  blood  mounted  there. 

"  It  won't  hurt  you,"  he  said.  "  You  're  better  when  you  're 
not  working." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  said  she  in  a  voice  that  irritated  Henr}  - 


XLVII 

IN  February  the  interruption  ceased.  Mabel  was  better. 
She  was  well  enough  for  John  to  take  her  to  the  Eiviera. 

Jane  was,  as  they  said,  "  off "  again.  But  not  all  at  once ; 
not  without  suffering,  for  the  seventh  time,  the  supreme  agony 
of  the  creator  —  that  going  down  into  the  void  darkness,  to  re- 
call the  offended  Power,  to  endure  the  tortures  that  propitiate 
the  revolted  Will. 

Her  book  was  finished  in  March  and  appeared  in  April.  Her 
terror  of  the  published  thing  was  softened  to  her  by  the  great 
apathy  and  fatigue  which  now  came  upon  her ;  a  fatigue  and  an 
apathy  in  which  Henry  recognized  the  beginning  of  the  illness 
he  had  prophesied.  He  reminded  her  that  he  had  prophesied 
it  long  ago;  and  he  watched  her,  sad  and  unsurprised,  but  like 
the  angel  he  invariably  was  in  the  presence  of  physical  suffering. 

She  was  thus  -spared  the  ordeal  of  the  birthday  celebration. 
It  was  understood  that  she  would  give  audience  in  her  study  to 
her  friends,  to  Arnott  Nicholson,  to  the  Protheros  and  Tanque- 
ray.  Instead  of  all  going  in  at  once,  they  were  to  take  it  in 
turns. 

She  lay  there  on  her  couch,  waiting  for  Tanqueray  to  come 
and  tell  her  whether  this  time  it  was  life  or  death. 

Nicky's  turn  came  first.  Nicky  was  unspeakably  moved  at 
the  sight  of  her.  He  bent  over  her  hand  and  kissed  it ;  and  her 
fear  misread  his  mood. 

"Dear  Nicky,"  she  said,  "are  you  consoling  me?" 

He  stood  solemnly  before  her,  inspired,  positively  flaming 
with  annunciation. 

"  Wait  —  wait,"  he  said,  "  till  you  Ve  seen  Him.  I  won't  say 
a  word." 

Nicky  had  never  made  himself  more  beautiful ;  he  had  never 

359 


360  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S 

yet,  in  all  his  high  renouncing,  so  sunk,  so  hidden  himself  be- 
hind the  splendour  that  was  Tanqueray. 

"And  Prothero"  (he  laid  beauty  upon  beauty),  "he'll  tell 
you  himself.     He  's  on  his  knees." 

The  moments  passed.  Nicky  in  his  beauty  and  his  pain  wan- 
dered outside  in  the  garden,  leaving  her  to  Prothero  and  Laura. 

And  in  the  drawing-room,  where  Tanqueray  waited  for  his 
turn,  Jane's  family  appraised  her  triumph.  Henry,  to  Caro 
Bickersteth  in  a  corner,  was  not  sure  that  he  did  not,  on  the 
whole,  regret  it.  These  books  wrecked  her  nerves.  She  was, 
Henry  admitted,  a  great  genius;  but  great  genius,  what  was  it, 
after  all,  but  a  great  Neurosis  ? 

Not  far  from  them  Louis  Levine,  for  John's  benefit,  calcu- 
lated the  possible  proceeds  of  the  new  book.  Louis  smiled  his 
mobile  smile  as  he  caught  the  last  words  of  Henry's  diagnosis. 
Henry  might  say  what  he  liked.  Neurosis,  to  that  extent,  was 
a  valuable  asset.  He  could  do,  Louis  said,  with  some  of  it  him- 
self. 

Brodrick,  as  he  surveyed  with  Tanqueray  the  immensity  of 
his  wife's  achievement,  wondered  whether,  for  all  that,  she  had 
not  paid  too  high  a  price.  And  Sophy  Levine,  who  overheard 
him,  whispered  to  Frances  that  it  was  he,  poor  dear,  who  paid. 

Tanqueray  got  up  and  left  the  room.  He  had  heard  through 
it  all  the  signal  that  he  waited  for,  the  sound  of  the  opening  of 
Jane's  door. 

Her  eyes  searched  his  at  the  very  doorway.  "  Is  it  all  right, 
George  ?  "  she  whispered.  Her  hand,  her  thin  hand,  held  liis 
until  he  answered. 

"  It 's  tremendous." 

"  Do  you  remember  two  years  ago  —  when  you  would  n't 
drink  ?  " 

"  I  drank  this  time.     I  'm  drunk,  Jinny,  drunk  as  a  lord." 

"  I  swore  I  'd  make  you  drink,  this  time;  if  I  died  for  it." 

She  leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  her  couch,  looking  at  him. 

"  Thank  heaven  you  've  never  lied  to  me ;  because  now  I 
know." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  do.     It 's  alive,  Jinny ;  it 's  organic ;  it 's 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  li  S  361 

been  conceived  and  born."  He  brought  his  chair  close  to  the 
table  that  stood  beside  her  couch,  a  barrier  between  them. 
"  It 's  got  what  we  're  all  praying  for  —  that  divine  unity " 

"  I  did  n't  think  it  could  have  it.     I  'm  torn  in  pieces." 

"  You  ?     I  knew  you  would  be." 

"  It  was  n't  the  book." 

"  Wliat  was  it  ?  "  he  said  fiercely. 

"  It  was  chiefly,  I  think,  Mabel  Brodrick's  illness." 

"Whose  illness?" 

"  John's  wife's.     You  don't  know  what  it  means." 

"  I  can  see.  You  let  that  woman  prey  on  you.  She  sucks 
your  life.     You  're  white ;  you  're  thin ;  you  're  ill,  too." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  Only  tired,  George." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it  ?     Why  do  you  do  it,  Jinny  ?  "  he  pleaded. 

"  Ah  —  I  must." 

He  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room;  and  each  time 
as  he  turned  to  face  her  he  burst  out  into  speech. 

"  What 's  Brodrick  doing?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  He  noticed  that  she  never  answered  him 
when  he  spoke  of  Brodrick  now.  He  paid  no  heed  to  the  warn- 
ing of  her  face. 

"Why  does  he  let  his  beastly  relations  worry  you?  You 
did  n't  undertake  to  marry  the  whole  lot  of  them." 

He  turned  from  her  with  that,  and  she  looked  after  him. 
The  set  of  his  shoulders  was  square  with  his  defiance  and  his 
fury. 

He  faced  her  again. 

"I  suppose  if  he  was  ill  you'd  have  to  look  after  him.  I 
don't  see  that  you're  bound  to  look  after  his  sisters-in-law. 
Why  can't  the  Brodricks  look  after  her  ?  " 

"  They  do.     But  it 's  me  she  wants." 

He  softened,  looking  down  at  her.  But  she  did  not  see  his 
look. 

"You  think,"  said  she,  "that  it's  odd  of  her  —  the  last 
thing  anybody  could  want  ?  " 

His  face  changed  suddenly  as  the  blood  surged  in  it.  He  sat 
down,  and  stretched  his  arms  across  the  table  that  was  the  bar- 


362  THE     CREATORS 

rier  between  them.  His  head  leaned  towards  her  with  its  salient 
thrust,  its  poise  of  impetus  and  forward  flight. 

"  If  you  knew,"  he  said,  "  the  things  you  say " 

His  hands  made  a  sudden  movement,  as  if  they  would  have 
taken  hers  that  lay  nerveless  and  helpless,  almost  within  their 
grasp. 

She  drew  her  hands  back. 

"  It 's  nearly  ten  o'clock,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  " 

She  smiled.  "  ISTo.  Only  —  they  '11  say,  if  I  sit  up,  that 
that 's  what  tires  me." 

"  And  does  it  ?     Do  7  tire  you  ?  " 

"  You  never  tire  me." 

"  At  any  rat3  I  don't  destroy  you ;  I  don't  prey  on  you." 

"  "We  all  prey  on  each  other.     I  prey  on  you." 

"  You  ?     Oh  —  Jinny  !  " 

Again  there  was  a  movement  of  his  hands,  checked,  this  time, 
by  his  own  will. 

"  Five  minutes  past  ten,  George.  They  '11  come  and  carry  me 
out  if  I  don't  go." 

"Who  will?" 

"  All  of  them,  probably.     They  're  all  in  there." 

"  It 's  preposterous.  They  don't  care  what  they  do  to  you 
themselves ;  they  bore  you  brutally ;  they  tire  you  till  you  're 
sick ;  they  hand  you  on  to  each  other,  to  be  worried  and  torn  to 
pieces;  and  they  drag  you  from  anybody  who  does  you  good. 
They  don't  let  you  have  five  minutes'  pleasure,  Jinny,  or  five 
minutes'  peace.     Good  Lord,  what  a  family !  " 

"  Anyhow,  it 's  my  family." 

"It  isn't.  You  haven't  got  a  family;  you  never  had  and 
you  never  will  have.  They  don't  belong  to  you,  and  you  don't 
belong  to  any  of  them,  and  you  know  it " 

She  rose.  "  All  the  same,  I  'm  going  to  them,"  she  said. 
"  And  that  reminds  me,  how  's  Rose?  " 

"  Perfectly  well,  I  believe." 

"  It 's  ages  since  I  saw  Rose.  Tell  her  —  tell  her  that  I  'm 
coming  to  see  her." 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S  363 

"  When  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Some  day  next  week." 
"Sunday?" 

He  knew,  and  she  knew  that  he  knew,  that  Sunday  was  Brod- 
rick's  day. 

"No,  Monday.     Monday,  about  four." 


XLVIII 

TANQUEEAY  was  realizing  more  and  more  that  he  was 
married,  and  that  his  marriage  had  been  made  in  that 
heaven  where  the  spirit  of  creative  comedy  abides.  In  spite  of 
the  superb  sincerity  of  his  indifference,  he  found  it  increas- 
ingly difficult  to  ignore  his  wife.  It  had,  in  fact,  become  im- 
possible now  that  people  no  longer  ignored  him.  Rose,  as  the 
wife  of  an  obscurity,  could  very  easily  be  kept  obscure.  But,  by 
a  peculiar  irony,  as  Tanqueray's  genius  became  recognized, 
Eose,  though  not  exactly  recognized  in  any  social  sense,  un- 
doubtedly tended  to  appear.  Tanqueray  might  dine  "  out " 
without  her  (he  frequently  did),  but  when  it  came  to  asking 
people  back  again  she  was  bound  to  be  in  evidence.  Not  that 
he  allowed  himself  to  tread  the  ruinous  round.  He  still  kept 
people  at  arm's  length.  Only  people  were  more  agreeably  dis- 
posed towards  George  Tanqueray  recognized  than  they  had  been 
towards  George  Tanqueray  obscure,  and  he  in  consequence  was 
more  agreeably  disposed  towards  them.  Having  made  it  clearly 
understood  that  he  would  not  receive  people,  that  he  barred  him- 
self against  all  intrusions  and  approaches,  occasionally,  at  the 
length  of  his  arm,  he  did  receive  them.  And  they  immediately 
became  aware  of  Eose. 

That  did  not  matter,  considering  how  little  they  mattered. 
The  nuisance  of  it  was  that  he  thus  became  aware  of  her  himself. 
Eose  at  the  head  of  his  table,  so  conspicuously  and  yet  so  for- 
tuitously his  wife,  emphasizing  her  position  by  her  struggles 
to  sustain  it,  Eose  with  her  embarrassments  and  solecisms,  with 
her  lost  innocence  in  the  matter  of  her  aspirates,  agonized  now 
by  their  terrified  flight  and  by  her  own  fluttering  efforts  at  re- 
capture, Eose  was  not  a  person  that  anybody  could  ignore,  least 
of  all  her  husband. 

As  long  as  she  had  remained  a  servant  in  his  house  he  had 

3G4 


THECEEATOES  365 

been  unaware  of  her,  or  aware  of  her  only  as  a  presence  benefi- 
cent, invisible,  inaudible.  Here  again  his  celebrity,  such  as  it 
was,  had  cursed  him.  The  increase  in  Tanqueray's  income,  by 
enabling  them  to  keep  a  servant,  had  the  effect  of  throwing 
Eose  adrift  about  the  house.  As  the  mistress  of  it,  with  a  maid 
under  her,  she  was  not  quite  so  invisible,  nor  yet  so  inaudible 
as  she  had  been. 

It  seemed  to  Tanqueray  that  his  acuter  consciousness  dated 
from  the  arrival  of  that  maid.  Eose,  too,  had  developed  nerves. 
The  maid  irritated  Eose.  She  put  her  back  up  and  rubbed  her 
the  wrong  way  in  all  the  places  where  she  was  sorest.  For 
Eose's  weakness  was  that  she  could  n't  tolerate  any  competition 
in  her  own  line.  She  could  n't,  as  she  said,  abide  sitting  still 
and  seeing  the  work  taken  out  of  her  hands,  seeing  another 
woman  clean  her  house,  and  cook  her  husband's  dinner,  and  she 
knowing  that  she  could  do  both  ten  times  as  well  herself.  She 
appealed  to  Tanqueray  to  know  how  he  'd  like  it  if  she  was  to 
get  a  man  in  to  write  his  books  for  him.  She  was  always  ap- 
pealing to  Tanqueray.  When  George  wanted  to  know  what, 
after  all,  was  wrong  with  Susan,  and  declared  that  Susan  seemed 
to  him  a  most  superior  young  woman,  Eose  said  that  was  the 
worst  of  it.  Susan  was  much  too  superior  for  her.  She  could 
see  well  enough,  she  said,  that  Susan  knew  that  she  was  not  a 
lady,  and  she  could  see  that  George  knew  that  she  knew.  Else 
why  did  he  say  that  Susan  was  superior?  And  sometimes 
George  would  be  beside  himself  with  fury  and  would  roar, 
"  Damn  Susan !  "  And  sometimes,  but  not  often,  he  would  be 
a  torment  and  a  tease.  He  would  tell  Eose  that  he  loved  Su- 
san, that  he  adored  Susan,  that  he  could  n't  live  without  her. 
He  might  part  with  Eose,  but  he  could  n't  possibly  part  with 
Susan.  Susan  was  the  symbol  of  his  prosperity.  Without  Su- 
san he  would  not  feel  celebrated  any  more. 

And  sometimes  Eose  would  laugh ;  and  sometimes,  in  mo- 
ments of  extreme  depression,  she  would  deplore  the  irony  of  the 
success  that  had  saddled  her  with  Susan.  And  Tanqueray 
cursed  Susan  in  his  heart,  as  the  cause  of  Eose's  increasing  tend- 
ency to  conversation. 


366  THE     CEEA  TORS 

It  was  there  that  she  encroached.  She  invaded  more  and 
more  the  guarded  territory  of  silence.  She  annexed  outlying 
pieces  of  Tanqiieray's  sacred  time,  pursuing  him  with  talk  that 
it  was  intolerable  to  listen  to. 

He  blamed  Prothero  and  Laura  and  Jane  for  that,  as  well  as 
Susan.  They  were  the  first  who  had  encouraged  her  to  talk,  and 
now  she  had  got  the  habit. 

And  it  was  there  again  that  the  really  fine  and  poignant  irony 
came  in.  Through  her  intercourse  with  Jane  and  Laiira,  Eose 
offered  herself  for  comparison,  and  showed  flagrantly  imperfect. 
But  for  that,  owing  to  Tanqueray's  superhuman  powers  of  ab- 
straction, she  might  almost  have  passed  unnoticed.  As  it  was, 
he  owned  that  her  incorruptible  simplicity  preserved  her,  even 
at  her  worst,  from  being  really  dreadful. 

Once,  after  some  speech  of  hers,  there  had  followed  an  out- 
burst of  fury  on  Tanqueray's  part  and  on  Eose's  a  long  period  of 
dumbness. 

He  was,  he  always  had  been,  most  aware  of  her  after  seeing 
Jane  Brodrick.  From  every  meeting  with  Jane  he  came  to  her 
gloomy  and  depressed  and  irritable.  And  the  meetings  were 
growing  more  frequent.  He  saw  Jane  now  at  less  and  less  in- 
tervals. He  could  n't  go  on  without  seeing  her.  A  fortnight 
was  about  as  long  as  he  could  stand  it.  He  had  a  sense  of  just 
struggling  through,  somehow,  in  the  days  that  passed  between 
the  night  (it  was  a  Thursday)  when  he  had  dined  at  Putney  and 
Monday  afternoon  when  Jane  had  promised  that  she  would 
come  to  Hampstead. 

On  Monday  a  telegram  arrived  for  Tanqueray.  The  brisk 
director  of  a  great  publishing  firm  in  New  York  desired  (at  the 
last  moment  before  his  departure)  an  appointment  with  the 
novelist  for  that  afternoon.  The  affair  was  of  extreme  impor- 
tance. The  American  meant  business.  It  would  be  madness 
not  to  see  him,  even  though  he  should  miss  Jinny. 

All  morning  Tanqueray  sulked  because  of  that  American. 

Eose  was  cowed  by  his  mood.  At  luncheon  she  prepared  her- 
self to  sit  dumb  lest  she  should  irritate  him.  She  had  soft 
movements  that  would  have  conciliated  a  worse  ruffian  than 


THECEEATOES  367 

Tanqueray  in  his  mood.  She  rebuked  the  importunities  of  Joey 
in  asides  so  tender  that  they  could  n't  have  irritated  anybody. 
But  Tanqueray  remained  irritated.  He  could  n't  eat  his  lunch- 
eon, and  said  so. 

And  then  Eose  said  something,  out  loud.  That  was  n't  her 
fault,  she  said.  And  Tanqueray  told  her  that  he  had  n't  said  it 
was.  Then,  maddened  by  her  thought,  she  (as  she  put  it  to 
herself  afterwards)  fair  burst  with  it. 

"  I  wish  I  'd  never  set  eyes  on  that  Susan ! "  said  she. 

Tanqueray  at  the  moment  was  trying  to  make  notes  in  his 
memorandum-book.  He  might  be  able  to  cut  short  that  inter- 
view if  he  started  with  all  his  points  clear. 

"  Oh  —  liold  your  tongue,"  said  Tanqueray. 

"  I  am  'oldin'  it,"  said  Eose. 

He  smiled  at  that  in  spite  of  himself.  He  was  softened  by 
its  reminder  of  her  submissive  dumbness,  by  its  implication 
that  there  were,  after  all,  so  many  things  she  might  have  said 
and  had  n't. 

Having  impressed  upon  her  that  she  was  on  no  account  to  let 
Mrs.  Brodrick  go  till  he  came  back,  he  rushed  for  his  appoint- 
ment. 

By  rushing  away  from  it,  cutting  it  very  short  indeed,  he 
contrived  to  be  back  again  at  half-past  four.  Susan  informed 
him  that  Mrs.  Brodrick  had  come.  She  had  arrived  at  four 
with  the  baby  and  the  nurse.     She  was  in  there  with  the  baby. 

"  The  baby  ?  " 

Sounds  of  laughter  came  from  the  dining-room,  rendering  it 
unnecessary  for  Susan  to  repeat  her  statement.  She  smiled 
sidelong  at  the  door,  as  much  as  to  say  she  had  put  her  master 
on  to  a  good  thing.  He  would  appreciate  what  he  found  in 
there. 

In  there  he  found  Jinny  crouching  on  a  footstool ;  facing  her, 
Eose  knelt  upon  the  floor.  In  the  space  between  them,  running 
incessantly  to  and  fro  on  his  unsteady  feet,  was  Brodrick's  little 
son.  When  he  got  to  Jinny  he  flung  liis  arms  around  her  neck 
and  kissed  her  twice,  and  then  Eose  said,  "  Oh,  kiss  poor  Eose  "; 
and  when  he  got  to  Eose  he  flung  his  arms  around  her  neck,  too. 


368  THECEEATOHS 

and  kissed  her,  once  only.  That  was  the  distinction  that  he 
made.  And  as  he  ran  he  laughed,  he  laughed  as  if  love  were 
the  biggest  joke  in  all  the  world. 

Tanqueray  stood  still  in  the  doorway  and  watched,  as  he  had 
stood  once  in  the  doorway  of  the  house  in  Bloomsbury,  watch- 
ing Eose.  Now  he  was  watching  Jinny.  He  thought  he  had 
never  seen  her  look  so  divinely  happy.  He  watched  Brodrick's 
son  and  thought  distastefully  that  when  Brodrick  was  a  baby 
he  must  have  looked  just  like  that. 

And  the  little  Brodrick  ran  to  and  fro,  from  Jinny  to  Eose 
and  from  Eose  to  Jinn}^  passionately,  monotonously  busy,  with 
always  the  same  rapturous  embrace  from  Brodrick's  wife  and 
always  the  same  cry  from  Tanqueray's,  "  Kiss  poor  Eose !  " 

When  Jane  turned  to  greet  Tanqueray,  the  baby  clung  to  her 
gown.  His  mouth  drooped  as  he  realized  that  it  was  no  longer 
possible  to  reach  her  face.  Identifying  Tanqueray  as  the  cause 
of  her  remoteness,  he  stamped  a  baby  foot  at  him ;  he  distorted 
his  features  and  set  up  a  riotous  howl.  Eose  reiterated  her  sad 
cry  as  a  charm  to  distract  him.  She  pretended  to  cry  too,  be- 
cause the  baby  would  n't  look  at  her.  He  would  n't  look  at 
anybody  till  his  mother  took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him. 
Then,  with  his  round  face  still  flushing  under  his  tears,  he 
smiled  at  Tanqueray,  a  smile  of  superhuman  forgiveness  and 
reconciliation. 

Eose  gazed  at  them  in  a  rapture. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  how  you  can  keep  orf  kissin'  'im " 

"  I  can  keep  off  kissing  anything,"  said  he. 

Jane  asked  if  he  would  ring  for  the  nurse  to  take  the  baby. 

Tanqueray  was  glad  when  he  went.  It  had  just  dawned  on 
him  that  he  didn't  like  to  see  Jinny  with  a  baby;  he  didn't 
like  to  see  her  preoccupied  with  Brodrick's  son,  adoring,  posi- 
tively adoring,  and  caressing  Brodrick's  son. 

At  the  same  time  it  struck  him  that  it  was  a  pity  that  Eose 
had  never  had  a  baby ;  but  he  did  n't  carry  the  thought  far 
enough  to  reflect  that  Eose's  baby  would  be  his  son.  He  won- 
dered if  he  could  persuade  Jinny  to  send  the  baby  home  and 
stay  for  dinner. 


THE     CEEA  TORS  369 

He    apologized    for    not    having   been    there    to    receive    her. 
Jane  replied  that  Hose  had  entertained  her. 

"  You  mean  that  you  were  entertaining  Eose  ?  " 

"  We  were  entertaining  each  other." 

"  And  now  you  've  got  to  entertain  me." 

She  was  going  to  when  Eose  interrupted  (her  mind  was  still 
running  on  the  baby). 

"  If  I  was  you,"  said  she,  "  I  should  n't  leave  'im  much  to 
that  Gertrude." 

"What?"  (It  was  Tanqueray  who  exclaimed.)  "Not  to 
the  angel  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  angels,  but  if  it  was  me  I  would  n't  leave 
'im,  or  she  '11  get  a  hold  on  'im." 

"  Is  n't  he,"  said  Tanqueray,  "  a  little  young  ?  " 

But  Eose  was  very  serious. 

"  It 's  when  'e  's  young  she  '11  do  the  mischief." 

"  My  dear  Eose,"  said  Jane,  "  whatever  do  you  think  she  '11 
do?" 

"  She  '11  estrange  'im,  if  you  don't  take  care." 

"She  couldn't." 

"  Could  n't  ?     She  '11  get  a  'old  before  you  know  where  you  are." 

"  But,"  said  Jane  quietly,  "  I  do  know  where  I  am." 

"  Not,"  Rose  insisted,  "  when  you  're  away,  writin'." 

Tanqueray  saw  Jane's  face  flush  and  whiten.  He  looked  at 
Eose. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about,"  he  said,  with 
anger  under  his  breath. 

Jane  seemed  not  to  know  that  he  was  there.  She  addressed 
herself  exclusively  to  Eose. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  happens  when  I  'm  —  awav  ?  " 

"You  forget." 

"  Never !  "  said  Jane.  Tlie  passion  of  her  inflection  was  lost 
on  Eose  who  brooded. 

"  You  forget,"  she  repeated.     "  And  she  does  n*t." 

Involuntarily  Tanqueray  looked  at  Jane  and  Jane  at  Tanque- 
ray. There  were  moments  when  his  wife's  penetration  was 
terrible. 


370  THE     CEEATOES 

Eose  was  brooding  so  profoundly  that  she  failed  to  see  the 
passing  of  that  look. 

"  If  it  was  me/'  she  murmured  in  a  thick  voice,  a  voice  soft 
as  her  dream,  "  if  it  was  my  child " 

Tanqueray's  nerves  gave  way.  "  But  it  is  n't."  He  positively 
roared  at  her.     "  And  it  never  will  be." 

Eose  shrank  back  as  if  he  had  struck  her.  Jane's  heart  leaped 
to  her  help. 

"  If  it  was,"  she  said,  "  it  would  have  the  dearest,  sweetest  lit- 
tle mother." 

At  that,  at  the  sudden  tenderness  of  it  coming  after  Tanque- 
ray's blow,  Eose  gave  a  half-audible  moan  and  got  up  quickly 
and  left  the  room.  They  heard  her  faltering  steps  up-stairs  in 
the  room  above  them. 

It  was  then  that  Tanqueray  asked  Jane  if  she  would  stay 
and  dine  with  them.  She  could  send  a  note  to  Brodrick  by  the 
nurse. 

She  stayed.  She  felt  that  if  she  did  not  Tanqueray  would 
bully  Eose. 

Eose  was  glad  she  stayed.  She  M-as  afraid  to  be  left  alone 
that  evening  with  George.  She  was  dumb  before  him,  and  her 
dumbness  cut  Jane  to  the  heart.  Jane  tried  to  make  her  talk 
a  little  during  dinner.  They  talked  about  the  Protheros  when 
Susan  was  in  the  room,  and  when  she  was  out  of  it  they  talked 
about  Susan. 

This  was  not  wise  of  Jane,  for  it  exasperated  Tanqueray. 
He  wanted  to  talk  to  Jane,  and  he  wanted  to  be  alone  with 
her  to  talk. 

After  dinner  they  went  up  to  his  study  to  look  at  some  books 
he  had  bought.  The  best  of  selling  your  own  books,  he  said, 
was  that  you  could  buy  as  many  as  you  wanted  of  other  peo- 
ple's. He  had  now  got  as  many  as  he  wanted.  They  were 
more  than  the  room  would  hold.  All  that  he  could  not  get  on 
to  the  shelves  were  stacked  about  the  floor.  He  stood  among 
them  smiling. 

Eose  did  not  smile.  The  care  of  Tanqueray's  study  was  her 
religion. 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S  371 

"How  am  I  to  get  round  them  'eaps  to  dust?  "  said  she. 

"  You  don't  get  round  them,  and  you  don't  dust,"  said  Tan- 
queray  imperturbably. 

"  Then  —  them  books  '11  breed  a  fever." 

"  They  will.     But  you  won't  catch  it." 

Eose  lingered,  and  he  suggested  that  it  would  be  as  well  if 
she  went  down-stairs  and  made  the  coffee.  She  need  n't  send  it 
up  till  nine,  he  said.     It  was  now  five  minutes  past  eight. 

She  went  obediently. 

"  She  knows  she  is  n't  allowed  into  this  room,"  said  Tan- 
queray  to  Jane. 

"  You  speak  of  her  as  if  she  was  a  dog,"  said  she.  She  added 
that  she  would  have  to  go  at  half-past  eight.  There  was  a  train 
at  nine  that  she  positively  must  catch. 

He  had  to  go  down  and  ask  Eose  to  come  back  with  the  coffee 
soon.  Jane  was  glad  that  she  had  forced  on  him  that  act  of 
humility. 

For  the  moments  that  she  remained  alone  with  him  she  wan- 
dered among  his  books.  There  were  some  that  she  would  like 
to  borrow.  She  talked  about  them  deliberately  while  Tanque- 
ray  maddened. 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  station. 

She  turned  on  him  as  they  dipped  down  the  lane  out  of  sight 
and  hearing, 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  I  '11  never  come  and  see  you  again  if 
you  bully  that  dear  little  wife  of  yours." 

"I?  — Bully  her?" 

"Yes.  You  bully  her,  you  torture  her,  you  terrify  her  till 
she  does  n't  know  what  she 's  doing." 

"  I  'm  sorry,  Jinny." 

"  Sorry  ?  Of  course  you  're  sorry.  She  slaves  for  you  from 
morning  till  night." 

"  That 's  not  my  fault.  I  stopped  her  slaving  and  she  got 
ill.  Wliy,  it  was  you  —  you  —  who  made  mo  turn  her  on  to  it 
again." 

"  Of  course  I  did.  She  loves  slaving  for  you.  She  'd  cut  her- 
self  in   little   pieces.     She  'd   cook   herself  —  deliciously  —  and 


372  THE     CREATORS 

serve  herself  up  for  your  dinner  if  she  thought  you  'd  fancy 
her.'' 

"  You  're  right,  Jinny.     I  never  ought  to  have  married  her." 

"  I  did  n't  say  you  never  ought  to  have  married  her.  I  say 
you  ought  to  be  on  your  knees  now  you  have  married  her.  She  's 
ten  thousand  times  too  good  for  you." 

"  You  're  right,  Jinny.  You  always  were  right,  you  always 
will  be  damnably  right." 

"  And  you  always  will  be  —  oh  dear  me  —  so  rude." 

He  looked  in  her  face  like  a  whipped  dog  trying  to  reinstate 
himself  in  favour,  as  far  as  Tanqueray  could  look  like  a  whipped 
dog. 

"  Let  me  carry  those  books  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  may  carry  the  books,  but  I  don't  like  you.  Tanks." 

His  devil,  the  old  devil  that  used  to  be  in  him,  looked  at  her 
then. 

"  You  used  to  like  me,"  he  said. 

But  Jinny  was  beyond  its  torment.  "Of  course  I  liked  you. 
I  liked  you  awfully.     You  were  another  person  then." 

He  said  nothing  to  that. 

"  Forgive  me,  George,"  she  said  presently.  "  You  see,  I 
love  your  little  wife.' 

"  I  love  you  for  loving  her,"  he  said. 

"  You  may  go  on  loving  me  for  that.  But  you  need  n't  come 
any  further  with  me.     I  know  my  way." 

"  But  I  want  to  come  with  you." 

"  And  I,  unfortunately,  want  to  be  alone. 

"  You  shall.  I  '11  walk  behind  you  —  as  many  yards  as  you 
like  behind  you.     I  've  got  to  carry  the  books." 

"  Bother  the  books.     I  '11  carry  them." 

"  You  '11  do  notliing  of  the  sort." 

They  walked  together  in  silence  till  the  station  doors  were  in 
sight.  He  meant  to  go  with  her  all  the  way  to  Putney,  carrying 
the  books. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  "  I  know  what  would  really  please  you." 

"  You  do  know,"  she  said. 

A  moment  passed.     Tanqueray  stopped  his  stride. 


THE     CREA  TOES  373 

"  I  '11  go  back  and  beg  her  pardon  —  now." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  He  went  back;  and  between  them 
they  forgot  the  books. 

Though  it  was  not  yet  ten  the  light  was  low  in  Eose's  bedroom. 
Eose  had  gone  to  bed.  He  went  up  to  her  room.  He  raised  the 
light  a  little,  quietly,  and  stood  by  her  bedside.  She  lay  there, 
all  huddled,  her  body  rounded,  her  knees  drawn  up  as  if  she 
had  curled  into  herself  in  her  misery.  One  arm  was  flung  out 
on  the  bed-clothes,  the  hand  hung  cramped  over  a  fold  of  blanket ; 
sleep  only  had  slackened  its  convulsive  grip.  Her  lips  were 
parted,  her  soft  face  was  relaxed,  blurred,  stained  in  scarlet 
patches.     She  had  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

And  as  he  looked  at  her  he  remembered  how  happy  she  had 
been  playing  with  Jinny's  baby;  and  how  his  brutal  words  had 
struck  her  in  the  hurt  place  where  she  was  always  tender. 

His  heart  smote  him.  He  undressed  quietly  and  lay  down  be- 
side her. 

She  stirred ;  and,  finding  him  there,  gave  a  little  cry  and  put 
her  arms  about  him. 

And  then  he  asked  her  to  forgive  him,  and  she  said  there  was 
nothing  to  forgive. 

She  added  with  her  seeming  irrelevance,  "  You  did  n't  go  all 
the  way  to  Putney  then  ?  " 

She  knew  he  had  meant  to  go.  She  knew,  too,  that  he  had 
been  sent  back. 


XLIX 

ON  her  return  Jane  went  at  once  to  Brodrick  in  his  study. 
The  editor  was  gloomy  and  perturbed.  He  made  no  re- 
sponse to  her  regrets,  nor  yet  to  her  excuse  that  Tanqueray  had 
kept  her.  Presently,  after  some  moments  of  heavy  silence,  she 
learned  that  her  absence  was  not  the  cause  of  his  gloom.  He 
was  worried  about  the  magazine.  Levine  was  pestering  him. 
When  she  reminded  him  that  Louis  had  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
that  she  thought  he  was  going  to  be  kept  out,  he  replied  that 
that  was  all  very  well  in  theory ;  you  could  n't  keep  him  out  when 
he  'd  got  those  infernal  Jews  behind  him,  and  they  were  running 
the  concern.  You  could  buy  him  out,  you  could  buy  out  the 
whole  lot  of  them  if  you  had  the  money ;  but,  if  you  had  n't, 
where  were  you?  It  had  been  stipulated  that  the  editor  was 
to  have  a  free  hand;  and  up  till  now,  as  long  as  the  thing  had 
paid  its  way,  his  hand  had  been  pretty  free.  But  it  was  n't 
paying;  and  Levine  was  insisting  that  the  free  hand  was  the 
cause  of  the  deficit. 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  Levine's  point  was  that  they  had  not 
bargained  for  his  wife's  hand,  which  was  considerably  freer  than 
his  own.  If  they  were  prepared  to  run  the  magazine  at  a  finan- 
cial loss  they  were  not  prepared  to  run  it  for  the  exclusive  benefit 
of  his  wife's  friends;  which,  Levine  said,  was  about  what  it 
amounted  to. 

That  was  what  was  bothering  Brodrick ;  for  it  was  Jane's 
hand,  in  its  freedom,  tliat  had  kept  the  standard  of  the  maga- 
zine so  high.  It  had  helped  him  to.  realize  his  expensive  dream. 
The  trouble,  this  time,  he  told  her,  was  a  tale  of  Nina  Lem- 
priere's. 

Jane  gave  an  excited  cry  at  this  unexpected  flashing  forth  of 
her  friend's  name. 

"What,  Nina?     Has  she ?" 

374 


T  H  E     C.E  E  A  T  0  E  S  375 

Brodrick  answered,  almost  with  anger,  that  she  had.  And 
Levine  had  put  his  silly  foot  down.  He  had  complained  that 
the  tale  was  gruesome  (they  had  set  it  up;  it  was  quite  a  short 
thing);  Nina's  tales  usually  were  gruesome;  and  Nina's  price 
was  stiff.     He  did  n't  know  about  the  price ;  perhaps  it  was  a 

trifle  stiff ;  you  might  even  say  it  crackled ;  but  the  tale ! 

Brodrick  went  on  in  the  soft,  even  voice  that  was  a  sign  with  him 
of  profound  excitement  —  the  tale  was  a  corker.  He  did  n't  care 
if  it  was  gruesome.     It  was  magnificent. 

"  More  so  than  her  last  ?  "  Jane  murmured. 

"  Oh,  miles  more."  He  rummaged  among  his  papers  for  the 
proofs.  He  'd  be  eternally  disgraced,  he  said,  if  he  did  n't  pub- 
lish it.  He  wished  she  'd  look  at  the  thing  and  tell  him  if  he 
would  n't  be. 

She  looked  and  admired  his  judgment.  The  tale  was  every- 
thing that  he  had  said.     Nina  had  more  than  found  herself. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  you  '11  publish  it." 

"  Of  course  I  shall.  I  'm  not  going  to  knuckle  under  to  Louis 
and  his  beastly  Jews  —  with  a  chance  like  that.  I  don't  care  if 
the  price  is  stiff.  It 's  a  little  masterpiece,  the  sort  of  thing  you 
don't  get  once  in  a  hundred  years.  It  '11  send  up  the  standard. 
That 's  of  course  why  he  funks  it." 

He  pondered.  "  There 's  something  queer  about  it.  Whenever 
that  woman  gets  away  and  hides  herself  in  some  savage  lair  she 
invariably  does  a  thing  like  this." 

Jane  admitted  half-audibly  that  it  was  queer. 

They  gave  themselves  up  to  the  proofs,  and  it  was  late  when 
she  heard  that  Nina  had  crept  from  her  savage  lair  and  was  now 
in  London.  It  was  very  queer,  she  thought,  that  Nina  had 
not  told  her  she  was  coming. 

She  called  the  next  day  at  Adelphi  Terrace.  She  found  Nina 
in  her  front  room,  at  work  on  the  proofs  that  Brodrick  had 
sent  her. 

Nina  met  her  friend's  reproaches  with  a  perfect  frankness. 
She  had  not  told  her  she  was  coming,  because  she  did  n't  know 
how  long  she  was  going  to  stay,  and  she  had  wanted,  in  any 
case,  to  be  let  alone.     That  was  yesterday.     To-day  what  she 


376  THECEEATORS 

wanted  more  than  anything  was  to  see  Jane.  She  had  n't  read 
her  book,  and  was  n't  going  to  until  she  had  fairly  done  with 
her  own.  She  had  heard  of  it  from  Tanqueray,  and  was  afraid 
of  it.  Jane,  she  declared,  was  too  tremendous,  too  overwhelm- 
ing.    She  could  only  save  herself  by  keeping  clear  of  her. 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  Jane  said,  "  you  were  safe  enough 
—  after  that  last."  She  had  told  her  what  she  had  thought  of 
it  in  the  first  moments  of  her  arrival.  "  Safe,  at  any  rate, 
from  me." 

"  You  're  the  last  person  I  shall  ever  be  safe  from.  There 
you  are,  always  just  ahead  of  me.  I  'm  exhausted  if  I  look  at 
you.     You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  never  could  keep  up." 

"  But  why  ?  There  's  no  comparison  between  your  pace  and 
mine." 

"  It 's  not  your  pace.  Jinny,  it 's  your  handicap  that  frightens 
me." 

"  My  handicap  ?  " 

"  Well  —  a  baby,  a  husband,  and  all  those  Brodricks  and 
Levines.  I  've  got  to  see  you  carrying  all  that  weight,  and 
winning;  and  it  takes  the  heart  out  of  me." 

"  If  I  did  win,  would  n't  it  prove  that  the  handicap  was  n't 
what  you  thought  it?" 

iSTina  said  nothing.  She  was  thinking  that  it  must  be  pretty 
serious  if  Jinny  was  not  prepared  to  be  sincere  about  it. 

"  That 's  what  I  want  to  prove,"  said  Jane  softly,  "  that  there 
is  n't  any  handicap.     That 's  why  I  want  to  win." 

Her  feeling  was  that  she  must  keep  her  family  out  of  these 
discussions.  She  had  gone  too  far  the  other  night  in  the  things 
that  she  had  said  to  Tanqueray,  that  Tanqueray  had  forced  her 
to  say.  She  had  made  herself  afraid  of  him.  Her  admissions 
had  been  so  many  base  disloyalties  to  Hugh.  She  was  not 
going  to  admit  anything  to  Nina,  least  of  all  that  she  found  her 
enviable,  as  she  stood  there,  stripped  for  the  race,  carrying  noth- 
ing but  her  genius.  It  was  so  horribly  true  (as  Nina  had  once 
said)  that  the  lash  had  been  laid  across  her  naked  shoulders  to 
turn  her  into  the  course  when  she  had  swerved  from  it.     It  had 


THE     GEE  A  TOES  377 

happened  every  time,  every  time;  so  invariably  as  to  prove  that 
for  Nina  virginity  was  the  sacred,  the  infrangible,  predestined 
law,  the  one  condition. 

But  the  conditions,  she  said  aloiid,  were  nobody's  business  but 
your  own.  She  refused  to  be  judged  by  anything  but  the  result. 
It  was  absurd  to  talk  about  winning  and  handicapping;  as  if 
creative  art  was  a  handicap,  as  if  there  were  any  joy  or  any  end 
in  it  beyond  the  act  of  creation.  You  defeated  your  end  if  you 
insisted  on  conditions,  if  you  allowed  anything  extraneous  to 
count  as  much  as  that. 

The  flush  on  her  face  showed  what  currents  moved  her  to 
her  protest. 

"  Does  it  seem  to  you,  then,  that  1  've  defeated  my  end  ?  "  Nina 
pressed  her  point  home  implacably. 

Jane  strung  herself  to  the  pain  of  it. 

"  Not  you.''     She  paused  for  her  stroke.     "  Nor  yet  I." 

She  rose  with  it.  She  wanted  to  get  away  from  Nina  wlio 
seemed  terrible  to  her  at  that  moment.  She  shrank  from  meet- 
ing Nina's  eyes. 

Nina  was  left  meditating  on  her  friend's  beautiful  hypocrisy. 

It  might  be  beautiful,  but  it  was  fatuous,  too,  of  Jinny  to 
pretend  that  she  could  live  surrounded  and  hemmed  in  by 
Brodricks  and  do  what  she  had  done  without  turning  a  hair,  or 
that  she  could  maintain  so  uncompromising  an  affection  for  her 
husband  and  child  without  encountering  the  vengeance  of  the. 
jealous  god.  Nina  could  not  suppose  that  Jinny's  god  was  less 
jealous  than  George  Tanqueray's  or  her  own.  And  Jinny  must 
be  perpetually  offending  him.  She  recognized  the  righteousness 
of  the  artist  in  Jinny's  plea  to  be  judged  only  by  the  results. 
That,  no  doubt,  was  how  posterity  would  judge  her.  But  she, 
Nina,  was  judging,  like  posterity,  by  the  results.  The  largeness 
and  the  perfection  of  them  pointed  to  a  struggle  in  which  poor 
Jinny  must  have  been  torn  in  pieces.  Her  very  anxiety  to  con- 
ceal the  signs  of  laceration  betrayed  the  extent  to  which  she  had 
been  torn.  She  had  not  gone  so  far  in  her  hypocrisy  as  to  argue 
that  the  struggle  was  the  cause  of  the  perfection,  and  you  could 


378  THE     CREATORS 

only  conclude  that,  if  the  conditions  had  been  perfect,  there 
would  have  been  no  end  to  the  vast  performances  of  Jinny.  That 
was  how  she  measured  her. 

It  looked  as  if  whatever  you  did  to  her  you  could  n't  stop 
Jinny,  any  more  than  you  could  stop  George  Tanqueray.  Jinny, 
if  you  came  to  think  of  it,  had  the  superior  impetus.  George, 
after  all,  had  carefully  removed  obstruction  from  his  path. 
Jinny  had  taken  the  risk,  and  had  swept  on,  reckless,  regardless. 

It  was  beautiful,  her  pretending  not  to  see  it;  beautiful,  too, 
her  not  letting  you  allow  for  it  in  appraising  her  achievement, 
lest  it  should  seem  somehow,  to  diminish  yours.  As  if  she  had 
not  said  herself  that  the  idea  of  rivalry  was  absurd. 

Nina  knew  it.  Her  fear  lay  deeper  than  the  idea  of  rivalry. 
She  had  no  vision  of  failure  in  her  career  as  long  as  she  kept  to 
it.  The  great  thing  was  to  be  certain  of  the  designs  of  destiny ; 
so  certain  that  you  acquiesced.  And  she  was  certain  now;  she 
was  even  thankful  for  the  hand  and  its  scourge  on  her  shoulders, 
turning  her  back  again  on  to  the  splendid  course.  It  marked 
her  honourably;  it  was  the  sign  and  certificate  of  her  fitness. 
She  was  aware  also  that,  beyond  the  splendid  course,  there  was  no 
path  for  her.  She  would  have  been  sure  of  herself  there  but  that 
her  nerves  remembered  how  she  had  once  swerved.  She  had 
instincts  born  of  that  experience;  they  kept  her  on  the  lookout 
for  danger,  for  the  sudden  starting  up  of  the  thing  that  had 
made  her  swerve.  What  she  dreaded  now  was  some  irreparable 
damage  to  her  genius. 

She  was  narrowed  down  to  that,  her  bare  genius.  Since  there 
was  nothing  else;  since,  as  she  had  said  long  ago,  she  had  been 
made  to  pay  for  it  with  all  she  had  and  all  she  might  have  had, 
she  cherished  it  fiercely  now.  Her  state  was  one  of  jealousy  and 
fear,  a  perpetual  premonition  of  disaster.  She  had  tried  to  forget 
the  existence  of  Jane's  book,  because  Tanqueray  had  said  it  was 
tremendous,  and  she  felt  that,  if  it  were  as  tremendous  as  all 
that,  it  was  bound  to  obscure  for  a  moment  her  vision  of  her 
own. 

If  the  designs  of  destiny  were  clear,  it  was  equally  evident 
that  her  friends  were  bent  on  frustrating  them.     Within  five 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S  379 

minutes  after  Jane  Brodrick  had  removed  her  disturbing  pres- 
ence, Nina  received  a  telegram  from  Owen  Prothero.  He  was 
coming  to  see  her  at  five  o'clock.     It  was  now  half-past  four. 

This  was  what  she  had  dreaded  more  than  anything.  Her 
fear  of  it  had  kept  her  out  of  London  for  two  years. 

Owen  had  been  considerate  in  notifying  her  of  his  coming. 
It  suggested  that  it  was  open  to  her  to  escape  if  she  did  not  want 
to  see  him,  while  it  warned  her  not  to  miss  him  if  she  did.  She 
debated  the  point  for  the  half  hour  he  had  left  her,  and  decided 
that  she  would  see  him. 

Prothero  arrived  punctually  to  his  hour.  She  found  no 
change  in  his  aspect  or  his  manner.  If  he  looked  happy,  he 
looked  it  in  his  own  supersensual  way.  Marriage  had  not 
abridged  his  immeasurable  remoteness,  nor  touched  his  incor- 
ruptible refinement. 

He  considered  her  with  a  medical  eye,  glad  to  see  her  bearing 
the  signs  of  life  lived  freely  and  robustly  in  the  open  air.  Her 
mountains,  he  said,  evidently  agreed  with  her. 

She  inquired  after  Laura,  and  was  told  that  she  would  not 
know  her.  The  Kiddy,  he  said,  smiling,  had  grown  up.  She 
was  almost  plump ;  she  had  almost  a  colour. 

"  She  wants  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "  She  told  me  I  was  to 
bring  you  back  with  me." 

Ages  passed  before  she  answered.  "  I  don't  think,  really, 
Owen,  that  I  can  come." 

«  Why  not  ?  "  he  said. 

She  would  have  told  him  that  she  was  too  busy,  but  for  her 
knowledge  that  with  Owen  lying  was  no  good.  She  resented  his 
asking  her  why  not,  when  he  knew  perfectly  well  why. 

"  "WTiy  ever  not,"  he  repeated,  "  when  we  want  you  ?  " 

She  smiled.  "You  seem  determined  to  get  everything  you 
want." 

She  had  a  good  mind  to  tell  him  straight  out,  there  and  then, 

that  he  could  n't  have  everything  he  wanted,  not  with  her,  at 

any  rate.     He  could  n't  have  it  both  ways.     But  you  do  not  say 

these  things ;  and  if  she  could  judge  by  the  expression  of  his  face 

what  she  had  said  had  hit  him  hard  enough. 
24 


380  THECEEATOES 

He  sheltered  himself  behind  a  semblance  of  irrelevance. 
"Laura  is  very  fond  of  you." 

The  significance  of  the  statement  lay  in  its  implication  that 
he  was  very  fond  of  Laura.  Taken  that  way  it  was  fuel  heaped 
on  to  Nina's  malignant  fire.     Under  it  she  smouldered  darkly. 

"  She 's  getting  unhappy  about  you/'  he  went  on.  "  You 
don't  want  to  make  her  unhappy,  do  you  ?  " 

"Did  I  ever  want  to  make  her  unhappy?"  she  answered, 
with  a  flash.     "  And  if  it  comes  to  that,  why  should  it  ?  " 

"  The  Kiddy  has  a  very  tender  conscience." 

She  saw  what  he  meant  now.  He  was  imploring  her  not  to 
put  it  into  Laura's  head  that  she  had  come  between  them.  That 
would  hurt  Laura.  His  wife  was  never  to  suspect  that  her 
friend  had  suffered.  Nina,  he  seemed  secretly  to  intimate,  was 
behaving  in  a  manner  likely  to  give  rise  to  that  suspicion.  He 
must  have  been  aware  that  she  did  it  to  save  herself  more  suf- 
fering ;  but  his  point  was  that  it  did  n't  matter  how  much  she 
suffered,  provided  they  saved  Laura.  There  must  be  no  flaw 
in  that  perfect  happiness. 

"  You  mean,"  she  said,  "  she  won't  understand  it  if  I  don't 
come  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  mean  she  will  understand  it  if  you  keep  on 
not  coming.  But  of  course  you  '11  come.  You  're  coming  with 
me  now." 

It  was  the  same  voice  that  had  told  her  three  years  ago  that 
she  was  not  coming  with  him,  that  she  was  going  to  stay  and 
take  care  of  Laura,  because  that  was  all  that  she  could  do  for 
him.  And  as  she  had  stayed  then  she  went  with  him  now,  and 
for  the  same  reason. 

She  felt,  miserably,  that  her  reluctance  damned  her ;  it  proved 
her  coarse,  or  at  any  rate  not  fine  enough  for  the  communion  he 
had  offered  her,  the  fineness  of  which  she  had  once  accepted  as 
the  sanction  of  their  fellowship.  She  must  seem  to  him  pre- 
posterous in  her  anxiety  to  break  with  him,  to  make  an  end  of 
what  had  never  been.  All  the  same,  what  he  was  forcing  on  her 
now  was  the  fact  of  separation.     As  they  approached  the  house 


THECREATOES  381 

where  he  and  Laura  lived  she  had  an  increasing  sense  of 
estrangement  from  him  and  of  distance. 

He  drew  her  attention  to  the  iron  gate  that  guarded  their 
sanctuary,  and  the  untrodden  grass  behind  it.  His  dreams 
came  in  by  that  gate,  and  all  other  things  by  the  postern  door, 
which,  he  said,  was  the  way  he  and  she  must  go. 

Nina  paused  by  the  gate.     "  It  won't  open,  Owen," 

"  No.  The  best  dreams  come  through  the  gates  that  never 
open." 

"  It  looks  as  if  a  good  south  wind  would  bring  it  down." 

"  It  will  last  my  time,"  he  said. 


LAUEA  received  her  as  if  Protliero  were  not  there ;  as  if  he 
never  had  been,  never  would  be  there.  She  looked  up  from 
their  embrace  with  a  blue-eyed  innocence  that  ignored  him  in 
its  perfect  assurance  that  they  had  kept  their  pledge,  that  noth- 
ing had  ever  come  or  would  come  between  them. 

It  struck  Nina  that  he  had  no  grounds  for  his  anxiety.  Laura 
was  not  suffering;  she  was  not  going  to  suffer.  She  had  no 
consciousness  or  conscience  in  the  matter. 

It  was  made  clear  to  Nina  that  she  was  too  happy  for  that,  too 
much  in  love  with  Owen,  too  much  aware  that  Owen  was  in 
love  with  her,  though  their  fineness  saved  them  both  from  any 
flagrant  evidences  of  their  state.  They  evaded  as  by  a  common 
understanding  the  smallest  allusion  to  themselves  and  their 
affairs.  They  suggested  charmingly  that  what  excited  them  was 
the  amazing  performance  of  their  friends,  of  Tanqueray,  of 
Jane,  of  Nina.  In  her  smiling  protest  that  she  no  longer 
counted  Laura  gave  the  effect  of  serene  detachment  from  the 
contest.  She  surveyed  it  from  an  inaccessible  height,  turning 
very  sweetly  and  benignly  from  her  bliss.  She  was  not  so  re- 
mote, she  seemed  to  say,  but  that  she  remembered.  She  knew 
how  absorbing  those  ardent  rivalries  could  be.  Nina  she  evi- 
dently regarded  as  absorbed  fatally,  beyond  recall;  and  no  won- 
der, when  for  her  the  game  was  so  magnificent.  If  Nina  cared 
for  the  applause  of  a  blessed  spirit,  it  was  hers. 

It  seemed  to  Nina's  morbid  sense  that  Laura  overdid  it;  that 
the  two  of  them  closed  round  her  by  a  common  impulse  and  a 
common  fear,  that  they  rushed  to  her  wild  head  to  turn  her 
to  her  course  and  keep  her  there.  In  every  word  there  was  a 
sting  for  her,  tbe  flick  of  the  lash  that  drove  her  on. 

Nina  was  then  aware  that  she  hated  Laura.  The  hatred  was 
not  active  in  her  presence;  it  made  no  movement  towards  its 

382 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  E  S  383 

object;  it  lay  somewhere  in  the  dark;  it  tossed  on  a  hot  bed, 
sleepless  in  an  incurable  distress. 

And  Laura  remained  unconscious.  She  took  her  presently 
up-stairs  to  her  room,  Owen's  room.  It  was  all  they  had,  she 
said.  Nina  held  her  head  very  straight,  trying  hard  not  to  see 
Owen's  coat  that  hung  behind  the  door,  or  his  big  boots  all  in 
a  row  beside  Laura's  little  ones.  Her  face  in  the  glass  met  her 
with  a  challenge  to  her  ironic  humour.  It  demanded  why  she 
could  not  face  that  innocent  juxtaposition,  after  all  she  had  stood, 
after  all  that  they  were  evidently  prepared  to  make  her  stand. 
But  she  was  not  to  be  moved  by  any  suggestions  of  her  face. 
She  owed  it  a  grudge ;  it  showed  so  visibly  her  murkiness.  Sun- 
burnt, coarsened  a  little  by  the  wind,  with  the  short,  virile, 
jutting  bridge  of  the  nose,  the  hot  eyes,  the  mouth's  ironic  twist, 
it  was  the  face  not  of  a  woman  but  a  man,  or  rather  of  a  tem- 
perament, a  face  foredoomed  to  disaster.  She  accentuated  its 
effect  by  the  masculine  fashion  of  her  clothes  and  the  way  she 
swept  back  her  hair  sidelong  from  her  forehead.  Laura  saw 
her  doing  it  now. 

"  I  like  your  face,"  was  her  comment. 

"  It 's  more  than  I  do,"  said  Nina.     "  But  I  like  my  hands.'' 

She  began  washing  them  with  energy,  as  if  thus  dismissing 
an  unpleasant  subject.  She  could  admire  their  fine  flexible 
play  under  the  water;  do  what  she  would  with  them  her  hands 
at  least  were  feminine.  But  they  brought  her  up  sharp  with  the 
sight  of  the  little  scar,  white  on  her  wrist,  reminding  her  of 
Owen.  She  was  aware  of  the  beast  in  her  blood  that  crouched, 
ready  to  fall  upon  the  innocent  Laura. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room,  by  the  wardrobe,  Laura,  in  her 
innocence,  was  babbling  about  Owen. 

"  He  's  growing  frightfully  extravagant,"  she  said.  "  He  got 
fifteen  pounds  for  an  article  the  other  day,  and  what  do  you 
think  he  did  with  it  ?     Look  there !  " 

She  had  taken  a  gown,  a  little  mouse-coloured  velvet  gown, 
from  the  wardrobe  and  laid  it  on  the  bed  for  Nina  to  admire. 

"  He  went  and  spent  it,  every  bit  of  it,  on  that.  He  said  he 
thought  I  should  look  nice  in  it.     Was  n't  it  clever  of  him  to 


384  THECREATORS 

know  ?  And  who  ever  would  have  thought  that  he  'd  have 
cared  ? " 

Nina  looked  at  the  gown  and  remembered  the  years  when 
Laura  had  gone  shabby. 

"  He  cares  so  much/'  said  Laura,  "  that  I  have  to  put  it  on 
every  evening." 

"  Put  it  on  now,"  said  Nina. 

"Shall  I?"  She  was  longing  to.  "No,  I  don't  think  I 
will." 

"  You  must,"  said  Nina. 

Laura  put  it  on,  baring  her  white  neck  and  shoulders,  and 
turned  for  Nina  to  "  fasten  her  up  the  back." 

Nina  had  a  vision  of  Prothero  standing  over  the  little  thing, 
his  long  deft  hands  trembling  as  he  performed  this  office. 

The  Kiddy,  divinely  unconscious,  babbled  on  of  Owen  and  the 
wonderful  gown. 

"  Conceive,"  she  said,  "  the  darling  going  out  all  by  himself 
to  get  it !  How  he  knew  one  gown  from  another  —  how  he 
knew  the  shops  —  what  hand  guided  him  —  I  can't  think.  It 
must  have  been  his  guardian  angel." 

"  Or  yours." 

"  Yes  —  when  you  think  of  the  horrors  he  might  have  got." 

Laura  had  stroked  the  velvet  to  smoothness  about  her  waist, 
and  now  she  was  pulling  up  a  fold  of  lace  above  her  breasts.  As 
she  did  this  she  looked  at  her  own  image  in  the  glass  and  smiled 
softly,  unaware.  Nina  saw  then  that  her  breasts  were  slightly 
and  delicately  rounded;  she  recognized  the  work  of  life,  shaping 
Laura's  womanhood;  it  was  the  last  touch  of  the  passion  that 
had  made  her  body  the  sign  and  symbol  of  its  perfection.  Her 
own  breasts  heaved  as  the  wild  fang  pierced  them. 

Then,  as  her  fingers  brushed  the  small  white  back,  there 
surged  up  in  her  a  sudden  virile  tenderness  and  comprehension. 
She  looked  at  Laura  with  Prothero's  eyes,  she  touched  her  almost 
with  Prothero's  touch.  There  was,  after  all,  some  advantage  in 
being  made  so  very  like  a  man,  since  it  compelled  her  to  take  Pro- 
thero's view  of  a  little  woman  in  a  mouse-coloured  velvet  gown. 

The  gown  was  fastened,  and  the  Kiddy  in  an  innocent  vanity 


"All,"  she  iriuil,  "try  not  to  halo  me.  '" 


THECEEATOES  387 

was  looking  over  her  left  shoulder  and  admiring  her  mouse- 
coloured  tail.  Of  a  sudden  she  caught  sight  of  Nina's  eyes  in 
the  glass  regarding  her  sombrely.  She  turned  and  put  up  her 
face  to  Nina's,  and  paused,  wavering.  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
felt  Nina's  arms  about  her  neck,  and  Nina's  hands  touching  her 
hair  with  a  subtle,  quick  caress,  charged  with  confession. 
Laura's  nerves  divined  it.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at 
Nina. 

"  Ah,"  she  cried,  "  try  not  to  hate  me." 

Nina  bowed  her  head.  "  Poor  Kiddy,  dear  Kiddy,"  she  whis- 
pered.    "  How  could  I  ?  " 

How  could  she? 

She  could  n't,  even  if  she  tried ;  not  even  afterwards,  when 
she  sat  alone  in  that  room  of  hers  that  reminded  her  so  intol- 
erably of  Prothero.  To-night  it  reminded  her  still  more  in- 
tolerably of  her  dreadful  self.  She  had  been  afraid  to  enter  it 
lest  it  should  put  her  to  the  torture.  It  was  the  place  where 
her  beast  had  gone  out  and  in  with  her.  It  still  crouched  in 
the  corner  where  she  had  kicked  it.  It  was  an  unhappy  beast, 
but  it  was  not  cruel  any  more.  It  could  have  crawled  to  Laura's 
feet  and  licked  them. 

For  the  Kiddy  was  such  a  little  thing.  It  was  impossible  to 
feel  hatred  for  anything  so  soft  and  so  unintentionally  sweet 
and  small.  Life  had  been  cruel  enough  to  Laura,  before  Owen 
married  her.  If  it  came  to  suffering,  it  was  not  conceivable 
that  she  should  have  been  allowed  to  suffer  more. 

Nina  put  it  to  herself,  beast  or  no  beast,  if  she  had  had  the 
power  to  take  Owen  from  the  Kiddy,  to  make  the  Kiddy  suffer 
as  she  had  suffered,  could  she  have  done  it?  Could  she  have 
borne  to  be,  really,  such  a  beast  as  that?  Even  if  the  choice 
had  Iain,  innocently,  between  her  own  torture  and  the  Kiddy's, 
could  she  have  endured  to  see  the  little  tender  thing  stretched 
out,  in  her  place,  on  the  rack?     Of  course  she  couldn't. 

And  since  she  felt  like  that  about  it,  beast  or  no  beast, 
would  n't  even  Owen  say  that  she  was  not  so  dreadful  after  all  ? 

She  remembered  then  that,  though  he  had  seen  through  her, 
he  had  never  at  any  time  admitted  that  she  was  dreadful.     He 


388  THE     CREATORS 

had  spoken  rather  as  if,  seeing  through  her,  he  had  seen  things 
she  could  not  see,  fine  things  which  he  declared  to  be  the  inner- 
most truth  of  her. 

He  must  have  known  all  the  time  that  she  would  feel  like  that 
when  she  could  bring  herself  to  see  Laura. 

She  saw  through  him  now.  That  was  why  he  had  insisted  on 
her  coming.  It  was  as  if  he  had  said  to  her,  "  I  'm  not  thinking 
so  tremendously  of  her.  What  I  mean  is  that  it  '11  be  all  right 
for  you  if  you  '11  trust  yourself  to  me ;  if  you  '11  only  come."  He 
seemed  to  say  frankly,  "  That  beast  of  yours  is  really  dreadful. 
It  must  be  a  great  affliction  to  have  to  carry  it  about  with  you. 
I  '11  show  you  how  to  get  rid  of  it  altogether.  You  've  only  got 
to  see  her,  Nina,  in  her  heartrending  innocence,  wearing,  if  you 
would  believe  it,  a  mouse-coloured  velvet  gown." 

That  night  Laura  stood  silent  and  thoughtful  while  Prothero's 
hands  fumbled  gently  over  the  many  little  hooks  and  fastenings 
of  the  gown.  She  let  it  slide  with  the  soft  fall  of  its  velvet 
from  her  shoulders  to  her  feet. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said,  "  I  had  n't  put  it  on." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  where  the  silk  down  of  her  hair 
sprang  from  her  white  neck. 

"  Does  it  think,"  he  said,  "  that  it  crushed  poor  Nina  with 
its  beauty  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  She  would  not  tell  him  what  she 
thought.     But  the  tears  in  her  eyes  betrayed  her. 


LI 

IT  was  April  in  a  week  of  warm  weather,  of  blue  sky,  of  white 
clouds,  and  a  stormy  south-west  wind.  Brodrick's  garden 
was  sweet  with  dense  odours  of  earth  and  sunken  rain,  of  young 
grass  and  wallflowers  thick  in  the  borders,  and  with  the  pure 
smells  of  virgin  green,  of  buds  and  branches  and  of  lime-leaves 
fallen  open  to  the  sun.  Outside,  among  the  birch-trees,  there 
was  a  flashing  of  silver  stems,  a  shaking  of  green  veils,  and  a 
triumphing  of  bright  grass  over  the  blown  dust  of  the  suburb, 
as  the  spring  gave  back  its  wildness  to  the  Heath. 

Brodrick  was  coming  back.  He  had  been  away  a  fortnight, 
on  his  holiday.  He  was  to  have  taken  Jane  with  him  but  at 
the  last  moment  she  had  been  kept  at  home  by  some  ailment  of 
the  child's.  They  had  been  married  more  than  three  years  now, 
and  they  had  not  been  separated  for  as  many  nights  and  days. 
In  all  his  letters  Brodrick  had  stated  that  he  was  enjoying  him- 
self immensely  and  could  do  with  three  months  of  it ;  and  at  the 
end  of  a  fortnight  he  had  sent  Jane  a  telegram  to  say  that  he  was 
coming   back. 

She  was  waiting  for  him,  walking  in  the  garden,  as  she  used 
to  wait  for  him  more  than  three  years  ago,  in  excitement  and 
ecstasy.  The  spring  made  her  wild  with  the  wildness  of  her 
girlhood  when  the  white  April  evenings  met  her  on  her  Dorset 
moors. 

She  knew  again  the  virgin  desire  of  desire,  the  poignant,  in- 
communicable passion,  when  the  soul  knows  the  body's  mystery 
and  the  body  half  divines  the  secret  of  the  soul.  She  felt  again 
that  keen  stirring  of  the  immortal  spirit  in  mortal  sense,  her 
veins  were  light,  they  ran  fire  and  air,  and  the  fine  nerves 
aspired  and  adored.  At  moments  it  was  as  if  the  veils  of  being 
shook,  and  in  their  commotion  all  her  heights  and  depths  were 
ringing,  reverberant  to  the  indivisible  joy. 

389 


390  THECEEATORS 

It  was  so  until  she  heard  Brodrick  calling  to  her  at  the  gate. 
And  at  his  voice  her  wedded  blood  remembered,  and  she  came 
to  him  with  the  swift  feet,  and  the  flushed  face  uplifted,  and 
the  eyes  and  mouth  of  a  bride. 

Up-stairs  Gertrude  Collett  was  dressing  for  dinner.  She 
looked  out  at  her  window  and  saw  them  walking  up  and  down 
the  long  alley  of  the  kitchen  garden,  like  children,  hand  in 
hand. 

They  were  late  for  dinner,  which  was  the  reason,  Brodrick 
thought,  why  the  Angel  of  the  Dinner  (as  Jane  called  her) 
looked   annoyed. 

They  were  very  polite  and  kind  to  her,  sustaining  a  conversa- 
tion devised  and  elaborated  for  her  diversion. 

Gertrude  was  manifestly  not  diverted.  She  congratulated 
Brodrick  on  his  brilliant  appearance,  and  said  in  her  soft  voice 
that  his  holiday  had  evidently  done  him  good,  and  that  it  was 
a  pity  he  had  n't  stayed  away  a  little  longer.  Brodrick  replied 
that  he  did  n't  want  to  stay  away  longer.  He  thought  Gertrude 
looked  fatigued,  and  suggested  that  a  holiday  would  do  her  good. 
She  had  better  take  one. 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Jane. 

"  We  both,"  said  Brodrick,  "  wish  you  would." 

Gertrude  said  she  never  wanted  to  take  holidays.  She  got 
on  better  without  them.     Jane  looked  at  Brodrick. 

"  I  might  have  gone  with  you,"  she  said.  "  After  all,  Baby 
never  did  have  convulsions." 

"  I  knew  he  would  n't,"  said  Brodrick,  and  remembered  that 
it  was  Gertrude  who  had  said  he  would. 

A  pause  in  the  dialogue  robbed  Gertrude's  nest  remark  of 
any  relevance  it  might  have  had. 

"  We  've  seen,"  said  she,  "  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Tanqueray. 
(Another  pause.)      "I  wonder  how  Mrs.  Tanqueray  gets  on." 

"  I  imagine,"  said  Brodrick,  "  that  she  never  did  get  on  with 
him." 

"  I   meant  —  without  him." 

"  Oh."  He  caused  the  conversation  to  flourish  round  another 
subject. 


THECEEATORS  391 

In  the  drawing-room,  where  Gertrude  did  not  follow  them 
all  at  once,  Jane  turned  to  him. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  was  I  unkind  to  her?  " 

"Unkind?" 

"  Well,  was  I  kind  enough  ?  " 

"  You  are  always  kind,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?     Do  you  really  think  so  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  about  her,  Jinny,  I  've  got  other  things  to  attend 
to." 

"What  things?" 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  to  their  seat  beside 
the  hearth.  So  drawn,  so  held,  she  looked  in  his  face  and  smiled 
that  singular  smile  of  hers  that  he  found  so  adorable  and  incom- 
prehensible. 

"  I  'm  tired  of  being  made  love  to.  I  'm  going,"  she  said, 
"  to  fling  off  all  maidenly  reserve  and  make  love  to  you." 

She  put  away  his  arm  from  her  and  rose  and  seated  herself 
with  audacity  on  his  knees. 

"  The  devil  gets  into  me  when  I  have  to  talk  to  Gertrude." 

She  put  her  arm  lightly  and  shyly  about  him. 

"  Do  you  mind  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  Jinny,  I  rather  like  it." 

Her  arms  tightened  ever  so  little. 

"  It  gives  you,  does  n't  it,  an  agreeable  sense  of  impropriety 
at  your  own  fireside  ?  " 

She  did  something  to  his  hair  which  made  him  look  unlike 
himself  or  any  Brodrick. 

"  Supposing,"  she  said,  "  vou  repulse  me  ?  Could  you  repulse 
me?" 

"  No,  Jinny ;  I  don't  think  I  ever  could." 

"  What,  not  this  outrageous  hussy,  flinging  herself  at  your 
head,  and  rumpling  your  nice  collar?" 

She  let  him  go  that  she  might  look  at  him  and  see  how  he 
really  took  it.  He  drew  her  and  held  her  close  to  him  in  arms 
that  trembled  violently,  while  her  lips  brushed  his  with  skim- 
ming, fugitive  kisses,  and  kisses  that  lingered  a  moment  in  their 
flight. 


393  THE    CREATOES 

"  Do  you  like  the  way  I  make  love  ?  "  she  said.  "  And  do  you 
like  my  gown  and  the  way  I  do  my  hair  ? " 

His  voice  shook.  "  Jinny,  why  are  n't  you  always  like  this  ? 
Why  are  n't  you  always  adorable  ?  " 

"  I  can't  be  anything  —  always.  Don't  you  adore  me  in  my 
other  moods  ?  " 

"  Can  you,"  said  he,  "  adore  a  little  devil  when  it  teases  ?  " 

"  I  never  tease  you  when  you  're  tired." 

"  No,  but  I  'm  sometimes  tired  when  you  tease  me.  You  are, 
darling,  just  a  little  bit  exhausting  for  one  man." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jinny  complacently ;  "  I  can  exhaust  you.  But 
you  can  never,  never  exhaust  me.  There  's  always  more  where 
I  came  from." 

"  The  trouble  is,  Jinny,  that  I  can't  always  make  you  out.  I 
never  know  where  I  am  with  you." 

"  But,  my  dear,  think  of  having  to  live  with  a  woman  whom 
you  had  made  out.  Think  of  knowing  exactly  what  she 's  going 
to  do  before  she  does  it,  and  anticipating  all  her  conversation ! " 

"  Think,"  said  he,  "  of  living  with  a  woman  and  never  know- 
ing precisely  whether  she  's  your  wife  or  not  your  wife." 

"  But  it  solves  all  the  matrimonial  problems  —  how  to  be  the 
exemplary  father  of  a  family  and  yet  to  slip  the  noose  and  be  a 
bachelor  again  —  how  to  break  the  seventh  commandment " 

"  Jinny ! " 

"  The  seventh  commandment  and  yet  be  faithful  to  your  mar- 
riage vows  —  how  to  obtain  all  the  excitement  of  polygamy,  all 
the  relief  of  the  divorce  court  without  the  bother  and  the  scandal 
and  the  expense.     Why  can't  you  look  at  it  in  that  light?" 

"  Perhaps,  Jinny,  because  I  'm  not  polygamous." 

"  You  never  know  what  you  are  until  you  ^re  tried.  Suppos- 
ing you  'd  married  Gertrude  —  you  'd  have  had  Gertrude,  all 
there  is  of  Gertrude,  always  Gertrude,  and  nothing  but  Gertrude. 
Could  you  have  stood  it?" 

"  Probably." 

"  You  could  n't.  Before  you  'd  been  married  to  Gertrude  six 
months  you  'd  have  gone,  howling,  to  the  devil.  Whereas  with 
me  you  've  got  your  devil  at  home." 


THE     CEEATOES  393 

His  smile  admitted  that  there  was  truth  in  what  she  said.  She 
had  appealed  to  the  adventurous  and  lawless  spirit  in  him,  the 
spirit  that  marked  his  difference  from  his  family. 

She  went  on  with  her  air  of  reasonableness  and  wisdom.  "  I 
am  really,  though  you  may  n't  know  it,  the  thing  you  need." 

He  saw  his  advantage  in  her  mood. 

"  And  you.  Jinny  ?  Don't  you  know  that  you  're  happiest  like 
this?" 

"  Yes.     I  know  it." 

"  And  that  when  you  're  working  like  ten  horses  you  're  in 
misery  half  the  time  ?  " 

"  In  torture."     She  agreed. 

"  And  don't  you  know  that  it  makes  little  lines  come,  little 
lines  of  agony  on  your  forehead.  Jinny,  and  purple  patches 
under  your  dear  eyes;  and  your  mouth  hardens." 

"  I  know,"  she  moaned.  "  I  know  it  does.  And  you  don't 
love  me  when  I  look  like  that  ? " 

"  I  love  you  whatever  you  look  like,  and  you  know  it.  I  love 
you  even  when  you  wander." 

"  Even  ?     Do  you  mind  so  very  much  —  my  wandering  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,  perhaps,  a  little." 

"  You  did  n't  mind  at  all  before  you  married  me." 

"  I  did  n't  realize  it  then." 

"Did  n't  realize  what?" 

"  Your  genius.  Jinny,  and  the  things  it  does  to  you." 

"But  you  did  —  you  did  —  you  knew  all  about  it." 

"  I  knew  what  it  meant  to  me." 

"  What  did  it  mean  —  to  you  ?  " 

He  appeared  to  plunge  into  deep  memories  before  he  answered 
her. 

"To  me  it  was  simply  the  supreme  intellectual  interest.  It 
was  the  strongest  and  the  strangest  intellectual  influence  I  had 
ever  felt.     You  '11  never  quite  know  what  it  meant  to  me." 

"And  it  means  nothing  now  —  you  don't  like  it  —  my  poor 
genius?     And  they  used  to  say  you  were  in  love  with  it." 

"  So  I  was,  Jinny,  before  I  saw  you." 

"  You  were  in  love  enough  to  marry  it." 


394  THECEEATORS 

"  I  did  n't  marry  it.     It  would  n't  marry  me." 

"  Is  that  why  you  hate  it  ?  Darling,  you  can't  hate  it  as 
much  as  I  do." 

"  I  don't  hate  it.  But  you  can't  expect  me  to  love  it  as  I 
love  my  wife." 

"  But  I  'm  not  your  wife.  Your  wife  would  n't  behave  like 
this.     Would  you  like  me  better  if  I  did  n't  ?  " 

He  held  her  arms  in  his  arms,  fiercely  and  tight,  crushing  her. 

"  If,"  she  said,  "  I  was  a  virtuous  woman,  the  sort  of  woman 
who  sits  on  her  husband's  head  like  an  uncomfortable  crown  ?  " 

"  Jinny  —  if  Gertrude  were  to  hear  you  !  " 

She  loosened  his  arms  and  sat  up  and  listened. 

"  I  hear  Gertrude,"  she  said.  "  Darling,  your  hair  's  all  any 
way.  Let  me  straighten  it.  It  might  be  used  in  evidence  against 
us." 

Gertrude  indeed  wore  as  she  entered  the  ominously  distant 
air  of  one  who  suspects  a  vision  of  iniquity.  She  took  her  place 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  and  bent  her  head  over  her 
sewing.  A  thin  stream  of  conversation  flowed  from  Brodrick 
and  from  Jane,  and  under  it  she  divined,  she  felt  the  tide  that 
drew  them. 

She  herself  sat  silent  and  smooth  and  cool.  She  sat  like  one 
removed  from  mortality's  commotion.  But  it  was  as  if  she  were 
listening  to  the  blood  that  beat  in  Brodrick's  veins,  and  felt  in 
herself  the  passion  that  ran  there,  in  secret,  exulting  towards  its 
end. 

At  ten  o'clock  Jane  rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to  Gertrude. 
She  was  saying  good-night.  Brodrick  sat  abstracted  for  a  mo- 
ment. Presently  he  rose  also  and  followed  her  with  shining 
eyes. 

Gertrude's  head  bent  lower  and  lower  over  her  sewing. 


LII 

BEFOEE  long  Brodrick  was  aware  that  that  month  of  spring 
had  brought  him  the  thing  he  most  desired.  He  was  ap- 
peased again  with  the  hope  of  fatherhood.  It  tided  him  over 
the  bad  months  of  nineteen-seven,  over  the  intolerable  hours  that 
Levine  was  giving  him  in  the  office  of  the  "  Monthly  Eeview." 
It  softened  for  him  the  hard  fact  that  he  could  no  longer  afford 
his  expensive  dream.  The  old,  reckless,  personal  ambition,  the 
fantastic  pride,  had  been  overtaken  by  the  ambition  and  the 
pride  of  race.  He  wanted  to  found,  not  a  great  magazine,  but 
a  family,  to  have  more  and  more  children  like  the  solid  little 
son  they  had  called  John  Henry  Brodrick. 

The  child  justified  the  double  name.  The  blood  of  the  Brod- 
ricks  ran  in  him  pure.  He  flattered  the  racial  and  paternal 
pride.  He  grew  more  and  more  the  image  of  what  Brodrick 
had  been  at  his  age.  It  was  good  to  think  that  there  would  be 
more  like  him.  Brodrick's  pride  in  beholding  him  was  such 
that  he  had  almost  forgotten  that  in  this  question  of  race  there 
would  be  Jane  to  reckon  with. 

In  December,  in  the  last  night  of  nineteen-seven,  a  second  son 
was  born.  A  son  so  excessively  small  and  feeble  that  the  wonder 
was  how  he  had  contrived  to  be  born  at  all.  Brodrick  when  he 
first  looked  at  him  had  a  terrible  misgiving.  Supposing  he  had 
to  face  the  chances  of  degeneration?  There  could  be  only  one 
opinion,  of  course,  as  to  the  cause  and  the  responsibility.  He 
did  not  require  Henry  to  tell  him  that. 

Not  that  he  could  think  of  it  just  then.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  but  Jinny  pausing  again,  uncertain,  though  for  a  shorter 
time,  before  the  dreadful  open  door. 

Nineteen-eight  was  the  year  when  everything  happened. 
Jinny  was  hardly  out  of  danger  when  there  was  a  crisis  in  the 
affairs  of  the  "  Monthly  Eeview."     Levine,  who  had  been  pester- 

395 


396  THECREATOES 

ing  his  brother-in-law  for  the  last  eighteen  months,  was  pressing 
him  hard  now.  The  Eeview  was  passing  out  of  Brodrick's  hands. 
When  it  came  to  the  point  he  realized  how  unwilling  he  was  to 
let  it  go.  He  could  only  save  it  by  buying  Levine  out.  And  he 
couldn't  do  that.  As  the  father  of  a  family  he  had  no  busi- 
ness to  risk  more  money  on  his  unprofitable  dream. 

It  was  impossible  to  conceal  from  Jane  the  fact  that  he  was 
worried.  She  saw  it  in  his  face.  She  lay  awake,  retarded  some- 
what in  her  recovery  by  the  thought  that  she  was  responsible 
for  that  and  all  his  worries.  He  had  lost  money  over  the 
Eeview  and  now  he  was  going  to  lose  the  Eeview  itself,  owing, 
she  could  perfectly  well  see,  to  her  high-handed  editorship.  It 
would  go  to  his  heart,  she  knew,  to  give  it  up;  he  had  been  so 
attached  to  his  dream.  It  would  go  to  her  heart,  too.  It  was 
in  his  dream,  so  to  speak,  that  he  had  first  met  her ;  it  had  held 
them;  they  had  always  been  happy  together  in  his  dream.  It 
was  his  link  with  the  otherwise  inaccessible  and  intangible  ele- 
ments in  her,  the  elements  that  made  for  separation.  She  was 
determined  that,  whatever  went,  his  dream  should  not  go.  She 
could  not  forget  that  it  had  been  she  who  had  all  but  wrecked  it 
in  its  first  precarious  year  when  she  had  planted  George  Tan- 
queray  on  an  infatuated  editor. 

She  had  saved  it  then,  and  of  course  she  could  save  it  now. 
It  was  n't  for  nothing  that  she  had  been  celebrated  all  these  years. 
And  it  was  n't  for  nothing  that  Hugh,  poor  dear,  had  been  an 
angel,  refusing  all  these  years  to  take  a  penny  of  her  earnings 
for  the  house.  Pie  hadn't  married  her  for  that.  And  there 
they  were,  her  earnings,  diminished  by  some  advances  to  her 
father's  impecunious  family,  and  by  some  extravagances  of  her 
own,  but  still  swollen  by  much  saving  to  a  sum  more  than  suf- 
ficient to  buy  Louis  out. 

Her  genius,  after  all,  was  a  valuable  asset. 

She  lay  in  bed,  embracing  that  thought,  and  drawing  strength 
from  it. 

Before  she  was  well  enough  to  go  out  she  went  and  confronted 
Louis  in  liis  office. 

Jjfivine  was  human.     He  always  had  been;  and  he  was  moved 


THECEEATORS  397 

by  the  sight  of  his  pale  sister-in-law,  risen  from  her  bed,  dan- 
gerously, to  do  this  thing.  He  was  not  hard  on  her.  He  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  bought  out  for  a  sum  less  than  she  offered 
a  sum  that  no  more  than  recouped  him  for  his  losses.  He  did  n't 
want,  he  said,  to  make  money  out  of  the  thing,  he  only  wanted 
not  to  lose.     He  was  glad  to  be  quit  of  it. 

Brodrick  was  very  tender  to  her  when,  lying  in  bed  again, 
recovering  from  her  rash  adventure,  she  told  him  what  she  had 
done.  But  she  divined  under  his  tenderness  an  acute  embar- 
rassment ;  she  could  see  that  he  wished  she  had  n't  done  it,  and 
wished  it  not  only  for  her  sake  but  for  his  own.  She  could  see 
that  she  had  not,  in  nineteen-eight,  repeated  the  glorious  success 
of  nineteen-three.  The  deed  he  thought  so  adorable  when  she 
did  it  in  the  innocence  of  her  unwedded  will,  he  regarded  some- 
how as  impermissible  in  his  wife.  Then,  by  its  sheer  extrava- 
gance, it  was  flattering  to  his  male  pride ;  now,  by  the  same  con- 
spicuous quality,  it  was  not.  As  for  his  family,  it  was  clear  that 
they  condemned  the  transaction  as  an  unjustifiable  and  fantastic 
folly.  Brodrick  was  not  sure  that  he  did  not  count  it  as  one 
of  the  disasters  of  nineteen-eight. 

The  year  was  thick  with  them.  There  was  Jane's  collapse. 
Jane,  by  a  natural  perversity  had  chosen  nineteen-eight,  of  all 
years,  to  write  a  book  in.  She  had  begun  the  work  in  the  spring 
and  had  broken  down  with  the  first  effort. 

There  was  not  only  Jane ;  there  was  Jane's  child,  so  lamentably 
unlike  a  Brodrick.  The  shedding  of  his  first  crop  of  hair  was 
followed  by  a  darker  down,  revealing  Jane.  Not  that  anybody 
could  have  objected  to  Jane's  hair.  But  there  was  Jane's  deli- 
cacy. An  alarming  tendency  to  waste,  and  an  incessant,  violent, 
inveterate  screaming  proclaimed  him  her  son,  the  heir  of  an 
unstable  nervous  system. 

Jane's  time  and  what  strength  she  had  were  divided  between 
her  sick  child  and  Mabel  Brodrick. 

For  in  this  dreadful  year  Mabel  had  become  worse.  Her 
malady  had  declared  itself.  There  were  rumours  and  hushed 
hints  of  a  possible  operation.  Henry  was  against  it;  he  doubted 
whether  she  would  survive  the  shock.     It  was  not  to  be  thought 

85 


398  THE     CKEA  TORS 

of  at  present;  not  as  long  as  things,  he  said,  remained  quiescent. 

John  Brodrick,  as  he  waited,  had  grown  greyer ;  he  was  gentler 
also  and  less  important,  less  visibly  the  unsurprised  master  of 
the  expected.  The  lines  on  his  face  had  multiplied  and  softened 
in  an  expression  as  of  wonder  why  this  unspeakable  thing  should 
have  happened  to  him  of  all  men  and  to  his  wife  of  all  women. 
Poor  Mabel  who  had  never  done  anything 

That  was  the  way  they  put  it  now  among  themselves,  Mabel's 
shortcoming.  She  had  never  done  anything  to  deserve  this  mis- 
ery. Lying  on  her  couch  in  the  square,  solid  house  in  Augustus 
Road,  Wimbledon,  Mabel  covered  her  nullity  with  the  imperial 
purple  of  her  doom.  In  the  family  she  was  supreme  by  divine 
right  of  suffering. 

Again,  every  day,  Jane  trod  the  path  over  the  Heath  to  Wim- 
bledon. And  sometimes  Henry  found  her  at  John's  house  and 
drove  her  back  in  his  motor  (he  had  a  motor  now).  Once, 
boxed  up  with  him  in  the  closed  car  (it  was  March  and  the  wind 
was  cold  over  the  Heath),  she  surprised  him  with  a  question. 

"  Henry,  is  it  true  that  if  Mabel  had  had  children  she  'd  have 
been  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  curtly,  wondering  what  on  earth  had  made 
her  ask  him  that. 

"  It 's  killing  her  then  —  not  having  them  ?  " 

"  That,"  he  said,  "  and  the  desire  to  have  them." 

"  How  cruel  it  is,  how  detestable  —  that  she  should  have 
this " 

"  It 's  Nature's  revenge,  Jane,  on  herself." 

"  And  she  was  so  sweet,  she  would  have  loved  them " 

The  Doctor  brooded.     He  had  a  thing  to  say  to  her. 

"  Jinny,  if  you  'd  put  it  away  —  altogether  —  that  writing  of 
yours  —  you  'd  be  a  different  woman." 

"Different?" 

"  You  'd  be  happier.  And,  what 's  more,  you  'd  be  well,  too. 
Perfectly  well." 

"  This  is  not  tlie  advice  I  should  give  you,"  he  went  on,  ad- 
dressing her  silence,  "  if  you  were  an  unmarried  woman.  I 
urge  my  unmarried  patients  to  work  —  to  use  their  brains  all 


THECEEATOES  399 

they  can  —  and  married  ones,  too,  when  they  've  no  children. 
If  poor  Mabel  had  done  something  it  would  have  been  far  better. 
But  in  your  case  it 's  disastrous." 

Jane  remained  silent.  She  herself  had  a  premonition  of  dis- 
aster. Her  restlessness  was  on  her.  Her  nerves  and  blood  were 
troubled  again  by  the  ungovernable,  tyrannous  impulse  of  her 
power.  It  was  not  the  year  she  should  have  chosen,  but  because 
she  had  no  choice  she  was  working  through  everything,  secretly, 
in  defiance  of  Henry's  orders.  She  wondered  if  he  knew.  He 
was  looking  at  her  keenly,  as  if  he  had  at  any  rate  a  shrewd 
suspicion. 

"  I  hardly  think,"  he  said,  "  it 's  fair  to  Hugh." 

Henry  was  sure  of  his  facts,  and  her  silence  made  him  surer. 
She  was  at  it  again,  and  the  question  was  how  to  stop  her  ? 

The  question  was  laid  that  night  before  the  family  committee. 
It  met  in  the  library  at  Moor  Grange  almost  by  Brodrick's  invi- 
tation. Brodrick  was  worried.  He  had  gone  so  far  as  to  confess 
that  he  was  worried  about  Jane.  She  wanted  to  write  another 
book,  he  said,  and  he  did  n't  know  whether  she  was  fit. 

"  Of  course  she  is  n't  fit,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  It  must  be 
stopped.     She  must  be  made  to  give  it  up  —  altogether." 

Brodrick  inquired  who  was  to  make  her?  and  was  told  that  he 
was.  He  must  put  his  foot  down.  He  should  have  put  it  down 
before. 

But  Brodrick,  being  a  Brodrick,  took  an  unexpected  line. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  we  've  any  right  to 
dictate  to  her.  It 's  a  big  question,  and  I  think  she  ought  to  be 
allowed  to  decide  it  for  herself." 

"  She  is  n't  fit,"  said  Henry,  "  to  decide  anything  for  her- 
self." 

Brodrick  sent  a  level  look  at  him. 

"  You  talk,"  said  he,  "  as  if  she  was  n't  responsible." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  say  who  is  and  who  is  n't.  Ee- 
sponsibility  is  a  question  of  degree.  I  say  Jane  is  not  at  the 
present  moment  in  a  state  to  decide." 

"  It  sounds,"  said  Brodrick,  laughing  in  his  bitterness,  "  very 
much  as  if  you  thought  she  was  n't  sane.     Of  course  I  know 


400  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S 

she  'd  put  a  cheque  for  a  hundred  pounds  into  a  drawer  and  for- 
get all  about  it.  But  it  would  be  more  proof  of  insanity  in 
Jinny  if  she  remembered  it  was  there." 

"  It  would  indeed,"  said  Sophy. 

"  We  're  not  discussing  Jinny's  talent  for  finance,"  said  Henry. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Brodrick,  "  what  we  are  discussing  is  her 
genius  ?  " 

"  I  'm  not  saying  anything  at  all  about  her  genius.  We  've 
every  reason  to  recognize  her  genius  and  be  proud  of  it.  It 's 
not  a  question  of  her  mind.  It 's  a  question  of  a  definite  bodily 
condition,  and  as  you  can't  separate  mind  from  body "  (he 
shrugged  his  shoulders),  "well  —  there  you  are.  I  won't  say 
don't  let  her  work;  it's  better  for  her  to  use  her  brain  than 
to  let  it  rust.  But  let  her  use  it  in  moderation.  Moder  — 
ation.     Not  those  tremendous  books  that  take  it  out  of  her." 

"  Are  you  sure  they  do  take  it  out  of  her  ?  Tanqueray  says 
she  '11  be  ill  if  she  does  n't  write  'em." 

"  Tanqueray  ?     What  does  he  know  about  it  ?  " 

"  More  than  we  do,  I  suspect.  He  says  the  normal,  healthy 
thing  for  her  is  to  write,  to  write  tremendous  books,  and  she  '11 
suffer  if  we  thwart  her.     He  says  we  don't  understand  her." 

"  Does  he  suggest  that  you  don't  understand  her  ? "  asked 
Sophy. 

Brodrick  smiled.  "  I  think  he  was  referring  more  particu- 
larly to  Henry." 

Henry  tried  to  smile.  "  He  's  not  a  very  good  instance  of  his 
own  theory.     Look  at  his  wife." 

"  That  only  proves  that  Tanqueray's  books  are  n't  good  for 
his  wife.  Not  that  they  are  n't  good  for  Tanqueray.  Besides, 
Prothero  says  the  same  thing." 

"  Prothero !  " 

"  He  ought  to  know.     He  's  a  doctor." 

Henry  dismissed  Prothero  with  a  gesture. 

"  Look  here,  Hugh.  It  simply  comes  to  this.  Either  there 
must  be  no  more  books  or  there  must  be  no  more  children.  You 
can't  have  both." 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  children." 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S  401 

"  As  you  like  it.  I  don't  advise  it.  Those  books  take  it  out 
of  her  more." 

He  lowered  his  voice. 

"  I  consider  her  last  book  responsible  for  that  child's  deli- 
cacy." 

Brodrick  flinched  visibly  at  that. 

"  I  don't  care/'  the  Doctor  went  on,  "  what  Prothero  and 
Tanqueray  say.  They  can't  know.  They  don't  see  her.  No 
more  do  you.  You  're  out  all  day.  I  should  n't  know  myself 
if  Gertrude  Collett  had  n't  told  me." 

"  Oh  —  Gertrude  Collett." 

"  Nobody  more  likely  to  know.  She  's  on  the  spot,  watching 
her  from  hour  to  hour." 

"What  did  she  tell  you?" 

"  Why  —  that  she  works  up-stairs,  in  her  room  —  for  hours  — 
when  she 's  supposed  to  be  lying  down.  She 's  doing  it  now 
probably." 

"  Gertrude  knows  that  for  a  fact  ?  " 

"  A  fact.  And  she  knows  it  was  done  last  year  too,  before 
the  baby  was  born." 

"  And  I  know,"  said  Brodrick  fiercely,  "  it  was  not." 

"  Have  her  in,"  said  Sophy,  "  and  ask  her." 

Brodrick  had  her  in  and  asked  her.  Gertrude  gave  her  evi- 
dence with  a  gentle  air  of  surprise  that  there  could  be  any  doubt 
as  to  what  Mrs.  Brodrick  had  been  up  to  —  this  year,  at  any 
rate.  She  flushed  when  Brodrick  confronted  her  with  his  cer- 
tainty as  to  last  year.  She  could  not,  in  the  face  of  Brodrick's 
certainty,  speak  positively  as  to  last  year. 

She  withdrew  herself  hastily,  as  from  an  unpleasant  position, 
and  was  followed  by  Sophy  Levine. 

"There's  nothing  for  it,"  said  Henry,  "but  to  tell  her." 

"  About  the  child  ?  " 

"  About  the  child." 

There  was  a  terrible  pause. 

"  Will  you  tell  her,"  said  Brodrick,  "  or  shall  I  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  her.  I  '11  tell  her  now.  But  you  must  back  me 
up." 


402  THECKEATOES 

Brodriek  fetched  Jane.  He  had  found  her  as  Gertrude  had 
said.  She  was  heavy-eyed,  and  dazed  with  the  embraces  of  her 
dream.  But  when  she  saw  the  look  that  passed  between  Hugh 
and  Henry  her  face  was  one  white  fear.  The  two  were  about  to 
arraign  her.     She  took  the  chair  that  Henry  held  for  her. 

Then  he  told  her.  And  Brodriek  backed  him  up  with  silence 
and  a  face  averted. 

It  was  not  until  Henry  had  left  them  together  that  he  spoke 
to  her. 

"  Don't  take  it  so  hardly,  Jinny,"  he  said.  "  It 's  not  as  if 
you  knew." 

"  I  might  have  known,"  she  answered. 

She  was  thinking,  "  George  told  me  that  I  should  have  to 
pay  —  that  there  'd  be  no  end  to  my  paying." 


LIII 

THE  Brodricks  —  Hugh  —  Henry  —  all  of  them  —  stood 
justified.  There  was,  indeed,  rather  more  justice  than 
mercy  in  their  attitude.  She  could  not  say  that  they  had  let 
her  off  easily.  She  knew  (and  they  had  taken  care  that  she 
should  know)  the  full  extent  of  her  misdoing. 

That  was  it.  They  regarded  her  genius  (the  thing  which  had 
been  tacked  on  to  her)  more  as  a  crime  than  a  misfortune.  It 
was  a  power  in  the  highest  degree  destructive  and  malign,  a 
power  utterly  disintegrating  to  its  possessor,  and  yet  a  power 
entirely  within  her  own  control.  They  refused  to  recognize  in 
it  any  divine  element  of  destiny,  while  they  remained  imper- 
turbably  unastonished  at  its  course.  They  judged  it  as  they 
would  have  judged  any  reprehensible  tendency  to  excitement  or 
excess.  You  gave  way  to  it  or  you  did  not  give  way.  In  Jane 
the  thing  was  monstrous.  She  had  sinned  through  it  the  unfor- 
givable sin,  the  sin  against  the  family,  the  race. 

And  she  had  been  warned  often  enough.  They  had  always 
told  her  that  she  would  have  to  pay  for  it. 

But  now  that  the  event  had  proved  them  so  deplorably  right, 
now  that  they  were  established  as  guardians  of  the  obvious,  and 
masters  of  the  expected,  they  said  no  more.  They  assumed  no 
airs  of  successful  prophecy.  They  were  sorry  for  her.  They 
gathered  about  her  when  the  day  of  reckoning  came;  they 
could  n't  bear  to  see  her  paying,  to  think  that  she  should  have 
to  pay.  She  knew  that  as  long  as  she  paid  they  would  stand 
by  her. 

More  than  ever  the  family  closed  in  round  her ;  it  stood  solid, 
a  sheltering  and  protecting  wall. 

She  was  almost  unaware  how  close  they  were  to  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  stood  alone  there,  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle,  with  her  sin.     Her  sin  was  always  there,  never  out  of  her 

403 


404  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  R  S 

sight,  in  the  little  half-living  body  of  the  child.  Her  sin  tore 
at  her  lieart  as  she  nursed,  night  and  day,  the  little  strange,  dark 
thing,  stamped  with  her  stamp.  She  traced  her  sin  in  its 
shrunken  face,  its  thread-like  limbs,  its  sick  nerves  and  blood- 
less veins. 

There  was  an  exaltation  in  her  anguish.  Her  tenderness,  shot 
with  pain,  was  indistinguishable  from  a  joy  of  sense.  She  went 
surrendered  and  subdued  to  suffering;  she  embraced  passionately 
her  pain.     It  appeased  her  desire  for  expiation. 

They  need  n't  have  rubbed  it  into  her  so  hard  that  it  was 
her  sin.  If  she  could  have  doubted  it  there  was  the  other  child 
to  prove  it.  John  Henry  Brodrick  stood  solid  and  sane,  a  Brod- 
rick  of  the  Brodricks,  rosy  and  round  with  nourishment,  not  a 
nerve,  Henry  said,  in  his  composition,  and  the  stomach  of  a 
young  ostrich.  It  was  in  little  Hugh's  little  stomach  and  his 
nerves  that  the  mischief  lay.  The  screaming,  Henry  told  her, 
was  a  nervous  system.  It  was  awful  that  a  baby  should  have 
nerves. 

Henry  hardly  tliought  that  she  would  rear  him.  He  did  n't 
rub  that  in,  he  was  much  too  tender.  He  replied  to  her  agon- 
ized questioning  that,  yes,  it  might  be  possible,  with  infinite 
precaution  and  incessant  care.  With  incessant  care  and  infinite 
precaution  she  tended  him.  She  had  him  night  and  day.  She 
washed  and  dressed  him;  she  prepared  his  food  and  fed  him 
with  her  own  hands.  It  was  with  a  pang,  piercing  her  fatigue, 
that  she  gave  him  to  the  nurse  to  watch  for  the  two  hours  in 
the  afternoon  when  she  slept.  For  she  had  bad  nights  with  him 
because  of  the  screaming. 

Brodrick  had  had  liad  nights,  too.  It  had  got  on  his  nerves, 
and  his  digestion  suffered.  Jane  made  him  sleep  in  a  room 
at  the  other  end  of  the  house  where  he  could  n't  hear  the  scream- 
ing. He  went  unwillingly,  and  with  a  sense  of  cowardice  and 
sliame.  He  couldn't  think  how  Jinny  could  stand  it  with  her 
nerves. 

She  stood  it  somehow,  in  her  passion  for  the  child.  It  was 
her  heart,  not  her  nerves,  that  his  screams  lacerated.  Beyond 
her  heavy-eyed  fatigue  she  showed  no  signs  of  strain.     Henry 


THECEEATORS  405 

acknowledged  in  her  that  great  quality  of  the  nervous  tempera- 
ment, the  power  of  rising  high-strung  to  an  emergency.  He 
intimated  that  he  rejoiced  to  see  her  on  the  right  track,  substi- 
tuting for  the  unhealthy  excesses  of  the  brain  the  normal,  whole- 
some life  of  motherhood.  He  was  not  sure  now  that  he  pitied 
her.     He  was  sorrier,  ten  times  sorrier,  for  his  brother  Hugh. 

Gertrude  Collett  agreed  with  the  Doctor.  She  insisted  that 
it  was  Brodrick  and  not  Jane  who  suffered.  Gertrude  was  in  a 
position  to  know.  She  hinted  that  nobody  but  she  really  did 
know.  She  saw  more  of  him  than  any  of  his  family.  She  saw 
more  of  him  than  Jane.  Brodrick's  suffering  was  Gertrude's 
opportunity,  the  open,  consecrated  door  where  she  entered  soft- 
footed,  angelic,  with  a  barely  perceptible  motion  of  her  ministrant 
wings.  Circumstances  restored  the  old  intimate  relation.  Brod- 
rick was  worried  about  his  digestion;  he  was  afraid  he  was  break- 
ing up  altogether,  and  Gertrude's  solicitude  confirmed  him  in  his 
fear.  Under  its  influence  and  Gertrude's  the  editor  spent  less 
and  less  of  his  time  in  Fleet  Street.  He  found,  as  he  had  found 
before,  that  a  great  part  of  his  work  could  be  done  more  com- 
fortably at  home.  He  found,  too,  that  he  required  more  than 
ever  the  co-operation  of  a  secretary.  The  increased  efficiency 
of  x4.ddy  Ranger  made  her  permanent  and  invaluable  in  Fleet 
Street.  Jane's  preoccupation  had  removed  her  altogether  from 
the  affairs  of  the  "  Monthly  Review."  Inevitably  Gertrude  slid 
into  her  former  place. 

She  had  more  of  Brodrick  now  than  she  had  ever  had;  she 
had  more  of  the  best  of  him.  She  was  associated  with  his  ambi- 
tion and  his  dream.  Now  that  Jane's  hand  was  not  there  to 
support  it,  Brodrick's  dream  had  begun  to  sink  a  little,  it  was 
lowering  itself  almost  to  Gertrude's  reach.  She  could  touch  it 
on  tiptoe,  straining.  She  commiserated  Jane  on  her  exclusion 
from  the  editor's  adventures  and  excitements,  his  untii'ing  pur- 
suit of  the  young  talents  (his  scent  for  them  was  not  quite  so 
infallible  as  it  had  been),  his  curious  or  glorious  finds.  Jane 
smiled  at  her  under  her  tired  eyes.  She  was  glad  that  he  was 
not  alone  in  his  dream,  that  he  had  some  one,  if  it  was  only 
Gertrude. 


406  THE     CREATORS 

For,  by  an  irony  that  no  Brodrick  could  possibly  have  fore- 
seen, Jane's  child  separated  her  from  her  husband  more  than 
her  genius  had  ever  done.  Her  motherhood  had  the  fierce 
ardour  and  concentration  of  the  disastrous  power.  It  was  as  if 
her  genius  had  changed  its  channel  and  direction,  and  had  its 
impulse  bent  on  giving  life  to  the  half-living  body.  Nothing 
else  mattered.  She  could  not  have  travelled  farther  from  Brod- 
rick in  her  widest,  wildest  wanderings.  The  very  hours  con- 
spired against  them.  Jane  had  to  sleep  in  the  afternoon,  to 
make  up  for  bad  nights.  Brodrick  was  apt  to  sleep  in  the 
evenings,  after  dinner,  when  Jane  revived  a  little  and  was  free. 

The  year  passed  and  she  triumphed.  The  little  half-living 
body  had  quickened.  The  child,  Henry  said,  would  live;  he 
might  even  be  fairly  strong.  His  food  nourished  him.  He  was 
gaining  weight  and  substance.  Jane  was  to  be  congratulated  on 
her  work  which  was  nothing  short  of  a  miracle.  Her  work ;  licr 
miracle;  Henry  admitted  it  was  that.  He  had  had  to  stand  by 
and  do  nothing.  He  could  n't  work  miracles.  But  if  Jane  had 
relaxed  her  care  for  a  moment  there  was  no  miracle  that  could 
have  saved  the  child. 

To  Jane  it  ivas  a  miracle.  It  was  as  if  her  folding  arms  had 
been  his  antenatal  hiding-place;  as  if  she  had  brought  him  forth 
with  anguish  a  second  time. 

She  would  not  have  admitted  that  she  loved  him  more  than 
his  brother.  Jacky  was  as  good  as  gold ;  but  he  was  good  with 
Gertrude  and  happy  with  Gertrude.  The  baby  was  neither  good 
nor  happy  with  anybody  but  Jane.  Between  her  and  the  little 
twice-born  son  there  was  an  unbreakable  tie.  He  attached  him- 
self to  his  mother  with  a  painful,  pitiful  passion.  Out  of  her 
sight  he  languished.  He  had  grown  into  her  arms.  Every  time 
he  was  taken  from  them  it  was  a  rending  of  flesh  from  tender 
flesh. 

His  attachment  grew  with  his  strength,  and  she  was  more 
captured  and  more  chained  than  ever.  He  "  had  "  her,  as  Tan- 
queray  would  liave  said,  at  every  turn.  Frances  and  Sophy, 
the  wise  maternal  women,  shook  their  heads  in  their  wisdom; 


THECEEATOES  407 

and  Jane  smiled  in  hers.  She  was  wiser  than  any  of  them. 
She  had  become  pure  womanhood,  she  said,  like  Gertrude.  She 
defied  Gertrude's  womanhood  to  produce  a  superior  purity. 

Brodrick  had  accepted  the  fact  without  astonishment.  The 
instinct  of  paternity  was  strong  in  him.  Once  married  to  Jane 
her  genius  had  become  of  secondary  importance.  The  important 
thing  was  that  she  was  his  wife;  and  even  that  was  not  so  im- 
portant as  it  had  been.  Only  last  year  he  had  told  her,  jesting, 
that  he  never  knew  whether  she  was  his  wife  or  not.  He 
hardly  knew  now  (they  saw  so  little  of  each  other)  ;  but  he  did 
know  that  she  was  the  mother  of  his  children. 

In  the  extremity  of  her  anguish  Jane  had  not  observed  this 
change  in  Brodrick's  attitude.  But  now  she  had  leisure  to 
observe.  What  struck  her  first  was  the  way  Gertrude  Collett 
had  come  out.  It  was  in  proportion  as  she  herself  had  become 
sunk  in  her  maternal  functions  that  Gertrude  had  emerged.  She 
was  amazed  at  the  extent  to  which  a  soft-feathered  angel,  inno- 
cent, heaven  knew,  of  the  literary  taint,  could  constitute  herself 
a  great  editor's  intellectual  companion.  But  Gertrude's  intel- 
lect retained  the  quality  of  Gertrude.  In  all  its  manifestations 
it  was  soothing  and  serene.  And  there  was  not  too  much  of 
it  —  never  any  more  than  a  tired  and  slighty  deteriorated  editor 
could  stand. 

Jane  had  observed  (pitifully)  the  deterioration  and  the  tired- 
ness. A  falling  off  in  the  high  fineness  of  the  "  Monthly  Ee- 
view  "  showed  that  Brodrick  was  losing  his  perfect,  his  infallible 
scent.  The  tiredness  she  judged  to  be  the  cause  of  the  deteriora- 
tion. Presently,  when  she  was  free  to  take  some  of  his  work  off 
his  shoulders,  he  would  revive.  Meanwhile  she  was  glad  that 
he  could  find  refreshment  in  his  increased  communion  with  Ger- 
trude. She  knew  that  he' would  sleep  well  after  it.  And  so 
long  as  he  could  sleep 

She  said  to  herself  that  she  had  done  Gertrude  an  injustice. 
She  was  wrong  in  supposing  that  if  Hugh  had  been  married 
to  their  angel  he  would  have  tired  of  her,  or  that  he  would  ever 
have  had  too  much  of  her.     You  could  n't  have  too  mucli  of 


408  THE     CEEA  TORS 

Gertrude,  for  there  was,  after  all,  so  very  little  to  have.  Or 
else  she  measured  herself  discreetly,  never  giving  him  any  more 
than  he  could  stand. 

But  Gertrude's  discretion  could  not  disguise  from  Jane  the 
fact  of  her  ascendency.  She  owed  it  to  her  very  self-restraint, 
her  amazing  moderation.  And,  after  all,  what  was  it  but  the 
power,  developed  with  opportunity,  of  doing  for  Brodrick  what- 
ever it  was  that  Jane  at  the  moment  could  not  do  ?  When  Jane 
shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  imagine  what  it  would  be  like  if  Ger- 
trude were  not  there,  she  found  herself  inquiring  with  dismay 
why,  whatever  would  he  do  without  her?  What  would  she  do 
herself?  It  was  Gertrude  who  kept  them  all  together.  She 
ran  the  house  noiselessly  on  greased  wheels,  she  smoothed  all 
Brodrick's  rose-leaves  as  fast  as  Jane  crumpled  them.  Without 
Gertrude  there  would  be  no  peace. 

Before  long  Jane  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  tine 
height  to  which  Gertrude  could  ascend.  It  was  at  a  luncheon 
party  that  they  gave,  by  way  of  celebrating  Jane's  return  to  the 
social  life.  The  Herons  were  there,  the  young  people,  who  had 
been  asked  without  their  mother,  to  celebrate  Winny's  long  skirts ; 
they  and  the  Protheros  and  Caro  Bickersteth.  Jane  was  not  sure 
that  she  wanted  them  to  come.  She  was  afraid  of  any  disturb- 
ance in  the  tranquil  depths  of  her  renunciation. 

Laura  said  afterwards  that  she  hardly  knew  how  they  had  sat 
through  that  luncheon.  It  was  not  that  Jinny  was  n't  there  and 
Brodrick  was.  The  awful  thing  was  that  both  were  so  lament- 
ably altered.  Brodrick  was  no  longer  the  enthusiastic  editor, 
gathering  around  him  the  brilliant  circle  of  the  talents ;  he  was 
the  absorbed,  depressed  and  ponderous  man  of  business.  It  was 
as  if  some  spirit  that  had  breathed  on  him,  sustaining  him, 
lightening  his  incipient  heaviness,  had  been  removed.  Jinny 
sat  opposite  him,  a  pale  Mater  Dolorosa.  Her  face,  even  when 
she  talked  to  you,  had  an  intent,  remote  expression,  as  if  through 
it  all  she  were  listening  for  her  child's  cry.  She  was  silent  for 
the  most  part,  passive  in  Prothero's  hands.  She  sat  unnoticed 
and  effaced;  only  from  time  to  time  the  young  girl,  Winny 
Heron,  sent  her  a  look  from  soft  eyes  that  adored  her. 


THECEEATOES  409 

On  the  background  of  Jane's  silence  and  effacement  nothing 
stood  out  except  Gertrude   Collett. 

Prothero,  who  had  his  hostess  on  his  right  hand,  had  inquired 
as  to  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  "  Monthly  Eeview."  Jane  referred 
him  to  Miss  Collett  on  his  left.  Miss  Collett  knew  more  about 
the  Eeview  than  she  did. 

Gertrude  flushed  through  all  her  faded  fairness  at  Prothero's 
appeal. 

"  Don't  you  know,"  said  she,  "  that  it 's  in  Mr.  Brodrick's 
hands  entirely  now  ?  " 

Prothero  did  know.  That  was  why  he  asked.  He  turned  to 
Jane  again.  He  was  afraid,  he  said,  that  the  Eeview,  in  Brod- 
rick's hands,  would  be  too  good  to  live. 

"  Is  it  too  good  to  live,  Gertrude  ?  "  said  she. 

Gertrude  looked  at  Brodrick  as  if  she  thought  that  he  was. 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Brodrick  will  let  it  die,"  she  said.  "  If 
he  takes  a  thing  up  you  can  trust  him  to  carry  it  through. 
He  can  fight  for  his  own.     He 's  a  born  fighter." 

Down  at  her  end  of  the  table  beside  Brodrick,  Laura  listened. 

"  It  has  been  a  bit  of  a  struggle,  I  imagine,  up  till  now,"  said 
Prothero  to  Jane. 

"Up  till  now"  (it  was  Gertrude  who  answered)  "his  hands 
have  been  tied.  But  now  it 's  absolutely  his  own  thing.  He  has 
realized  his  dream." 

If  she  had  seen  Prothero's  eyes  she  would  have  been  reminded 
that  Brodrick's  dream  had  been  realized  for  him  by  his  wife. 
She  saw  nothing  but  Brodrick.  For  Gertrude  the  "Monthly 
Eeview  "  was  Brodrick. 

She  drew  him  for  Prothero's  benefit  as  the  champion  of  the 
lost  cause  of  literature.  She  framed  the  portrait  as  it  were  in 
a  golden  laurel  wreath, 

Eddy  Heron  cried,  "  Hear,  hear  !  "  and  "  Go  it,  Gertrude  !  " 
and  "Winny  wanted  to  know  if  her  uncle's  ears  were  n't  tingling. 
She  was  told  that  an  editor's  ears  were  past  tingling.  But  he 
flushed  slightly  when  Gertrude  crowned  herself  and  him.  They 
were  all  listening  to  her  now. 

"  I  assure  you,"  she  was  saying,  "  we  are  not  afraid." 


410  T  H  E     C  K  E  A  T  0  R  S 

She  was  one  with  Brodrick,  his  interests  and  his  dream. 

She  was  congratulated  (by  Jane)  on  her  championship  of  the 
champion,  and  Brodrick  was  heard  murmuring  something  to 
the  effect  that  nobody  need  be  frightened;  they  were  safe 
enough. 

It  struck  Laura  that  Brodrick  looked  singularly  unsatisfied 
for  a  man  who  has  realized  his  dream. 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Prothero,  "  it  was  rash  of  you  to  take 
those  poems  I  sent  you." 

"Dear  Owen/'  said  Jane,  "do  you  think  they'll  sink  him?" 

"  As  far  as  that  goes,"  Brodrick  said,  "  we  're  going  to  have 
a  novel  of  George  Tanqueray's.  That  '11  show  you  what  we  can 
afford." 

"  Or  what  George  can  afford,"  said  Jane.  It  was  the  first 
spark  she  had  emitted.     But  it  consumed  the  heavy  subject. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Caro  Bickersteth,  "  where  is  George  Tan- 
queray  ?  " 

Laura  said  that  he  was  somewhere  in  the  country.  He  was 
always  in  the  country  now. 

"  Without  his  wife,"  said  Caro,  and  nobody  contradicted  her. 
She  went  on. 

"  You  great  geniuses  ought  not  to  marry,  any  more  than  luna- 
tics. The  law  ought  to  provide  for  it.  Genius,  in  either  party, 
if  you  can  establish  the  fact,  should  annul  the  contract,  like  — 
like  any  other  crucial  disability." 

"  Or,"  Jane  amended,  "  why  not  make  the  marriage  of  geniuses 
a  criminal  act,  like  suicide  ?  You  can  always  acquit  them  after- 
wards on  the  ground  of  temporary  insanity." 

"  How  would  you  deal,"  said  Brodrick  suddenly,  "  with  mixed 
marriages  ?  " 

"Mixed ?"     Caro  feigned  bewilderment. 

"  When  a  norm  —  an  ordinary  —  person  marries  a  genius  ? 
It 's  a  racial  difference." 

("Distinctly,"  Caro  murmured.) 

"  And  would  n't  it  be  hard  to  say  which  side  the  lunacy  was 
on?" 

Laura  would  have  suspected  him  of  a  bitter  personal  inten- 


THECEEATOES  411 

tion  had  it  not  been  so  clear  that  Jinny's  genius  was  no  longer 
in  question,  that  her  flame  was  quenched. 

It  was  Caro  who  asked  (in  the  drawing-room,  afterwards)  if 
they  might  see  the  children. 

Gertrude  went  up-stairs  to  fetch  them.  Eddy  Heron  watched 
her  softly  retreating  figure,  and  smiled  and  spoke. 

"  I  say,  Gee-Gee  's  going  strong,  is  n't  she  ?  " 

Everybody  affected  not  to  hear  him,  and  the  youth  went  on 
smiling  to  his  unappreciated  self, 

Gertrude  appeared  again  presently,  bringing  the  children.  On 
the  very  threshold  little  Hugh  struggled  in  her  arms  and  tried 
to  hurl  himself  on  his  mother.  His  object  attained,  he  turned 
his  back  on  everybody  and  hung  his  head  over  Jane's  shoulder. 

But  little  John  Henry  was  admirably  behaved.  He  wandered 
from  guest  to  guest,  shaking  hands,  in  his  solemn  urbanity,  with 
each.  He  looked  already  absurdly  unastonished  and  important. 
He  was  not  so  much  his  father's  son  as  the  son  of  all  the  Brod- 
ricks.  As  for  little  Hugh,  it  was  easy  enough,  Prothero  said,  to 
see  whose  son  he  was.  And  Winny  Heron  cried  out  in  an  ecstasy 
that  he  was  going  to  be  a  genius,  she  was  sure  of  it. 

"  Heaven  forbid,"  said  Brodrick.     Everybody  heard  him. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Hughy,  if  he  was  like  Jin-Jin !  "  Allurement 
and  tender  reproach  mingled  in  Winny's  tone. 

She  turned  to  Jane  with  eyes  that  adored  and  loved  and  de- 
fended her.  "  I  wish  you  'd  have  dozens  of  babies  —  darlings  — 
like  yourself." 

"  And  I  wish,"  said  Eddy,  "  she  'd  have  dozens  of  books  like 
her  last  one." 

Eddy  was  standing,  very  straight  and  tall,  on  his  uncle's 
hearth.  His  chin,  which  was  nothing  if  not  determined,  was 
thrust  upwards  and  outwards  over  his  irreproachable  high  collar. 
Everybody  looked  at  Eddy  as  he  spoke. 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is  why  she  does  n't  have  them  ?  What 
have  you  all  been  doing  to  her  ?  'WTiat  have  ijou  been  doing  to 
her.  Uncle  Hughy  ?  " 

He  looked  round  on  all  of  them  with  the  challenge  of  his 
young  eyes. 


412  THECEEATOES 

"  It 's  all  very  well,  you  know,  but  I  agree  with  Miss  Bicker- 
steth.  If  you  're  a  genius  you  've  no  business  to  marry  —  I  mean 
nobody  's  any  business  to  marry  you." 

"  Mine,"  said  Caro  suavely,  "  was  a  purely  abstract  proposi- 
tion." 

But  the  terrible  youth  went  on.  "  Mine  is  n't.  Uncle  Hugh  's 
done  a  good  thing  for  himself,  I  know.  But  it  would  have  been 
a  jolly  sight  better  thing  for  literature  if  he  'd  married  Gee-Gee, 
or  somebody  like  that." 

For  there  was  nothing  that  young  Eddy  did  not  permit  him- 
self to  say. 

Little  Hugh  had  begun  to  cry  bitterly,  as  if  he  had  understood 
that  there  had  been  some  reflection  on  his  mother.  And  from 
crying  he  went  on  to  screaming,  and  Gertrude  carried  him, 
struggling  violently,  from  the  room. 

The  screams  continued  in  the  nursery  overhead.  Jane  sat  for 
a  moment  in  agony,  listening,  and  then  rushed  up-stairs. 

Gertrude  appeared,  serene  and  apologetic. 

"  Can't  anything  be  done,"  Brodrick  said  irritably,  "  to  stop 
that  screaming?  " 

"  It 's  stopped  now,"  said  Winny. 

"  You  've  only  got  to  give  him  what  he  wants,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Yes,  and  he  knows  he  's  only  got  to  scream  for  it." 

Gertrude's  eyebrows,  raised  helplessly,  were  a  note  on  the 
folly  and  infatuation  of  the  child's  mother. 

Caro  Bickersteth  and  Laura  left,  hopeless  of  Jane's  return  to 
them.  Prothero  stayed  on,  conferring  with  the  editor.  Later, 
he  found  himself  alone  in  the  garden  with  Jane.  He  asked 
then  (what  they  were  all  longing  to  know)  when  she  was  going 
to  give  them  another  book? 

"  Never  again,  Owen,  never  again." 

He  reproached  her. 

"Ah  —  you  don't  know  what  it's  been,  this  last  year,"  she 
said.  "  George  told  me  I  should  have  to  pay  for  it.  So  did 
Nina.     And  you  see  how  I  've  paid." 

His  eyes  questioned  her. 

"  Through  my  child." 


THE     CREATORS  413 

He  turned  to  her.     His  eyes  were  pitiful  but  incredulous. 

"  Owen  —  Nina  said  there  'd  be  no  end  to  my  paying.  But 
there  shall  be  an  end  to  it.  For  a  year  it 's  been  one  long  fight 
for  his  little  life,  and  I  've  won ;  but  he  '11  never  be  strong ;  never, 
I  'm  afraid,  like  other  children.     He  '11  always  remind  me " 

"  Remind  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They  say  I  'm  responsible  for  him.  It 's  the  hard 
work  I  've  done.     It 's  my  temperament  —  my  nerves." 

"  Your  nerves  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  'm  supposed  to  be  hopelessly  neurotic." 

"But  you're  not.  Your  nerves  are  very  highly-strung  — 
they  're  bound  to  be,  or  they  would  n't  respond  as  perfectly  as 
they  do  —  but  they  're  the  soundest  nerves  I  know.  I  should  say 
you  were  sound  all  over." 

''  Should  you?  " 

«  Certainly." 

"Then"  (she  almost  cried  it)  "why  should  he  suffer?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
him  ?  " 

"  Owen " 

"  He  's  a  Brodrick.     He  's  got  their  nerves." 

"Their  nerves?     I  didn't  know  they  had  any." 

"  They  've  all  got  them  except  Mrs.  Levine.  It 's  the  family 
trouble.     Weak  nerves  and  weak  stomachs." 

"But  Henry " 

'''  He  has  to  take  no  end  of  care  of  himself." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  It 's  my  business,"  he  said,  "  to  know." 

"  I  keep  on  forgetting  that  you  're  a  doctor  too."  She  medi- 
tated.    "  But  Sophy's  cliildren  are  all  strong." 

"  No,  they  're  not.  Levine  told  me  the  other  day  that  they 
were  very  anxious  about  one  of  them." 

"  Is  it  —  the  same  thing  that  my  child  has  ?  " 

"  Precisely  the  same." 

"  And  it  comes,"  she  said,  "  from  them.  And  they  never  told 
me." 

"  They  must  have  thought  you  knew." 

26 


414  THECREATOES 

"  I  did  n't.  They  made  me  think  it  was  my  fault.  They  let 
me  go  through  all  that  agony  and  terror.  I  can't  forgive 
them." 

"  They  could  n't  have  known." 

"  There  was  Henry.  He  must  have  known.  And  yet  he  made 
me  think  it.     He  made  me  give  up  writing  because  of  that." 

"  You  need  n't  think  it  any  more.  Jacky  gets  his  constitution 
from  you,  and  it  was  you  who  saved  the  little  one." 

"  He  made  me  think  I  'd  killed  him.  It 's  just  as  well,"  she 
said,  "  that  I  should  have  thought  it.  If  I  had  n't  I  might  n't 
have  fought  so  hard  to  make  him  live.  I  might  have  been  tor- 
mented with  another  book.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  could 
have  stopped  me." 

She  paused.     "  Perhaps  —  they  knew  that." 

"  It 's  all  right,"  she  said  presently.  "  After  all,  if  there  is 
anything  wrong  with  the  child,  I  'd  rather  Hugh  did  n't  think 
it  came  from  him." 

She  had  now  another  fear.  It  made  her  very  tender  to  Brod- 
rick  when,  coming  to  him  in  the  drawing-room  after  their  guests 
had  departed,  she  found  him  communing  earnestly  with  Gertrude. 
A  look  passed  between  them  as  she  entered. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  two  putting  your  heads  together  about  ?  " 
she  said. 

Gertrude's  head  drew  back  as  if  a  charge  had  been  brought 
against  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Brodrick,  "  it  was  about  the  child.  Something 
must  be  done.     You  can't  go  on  like  this." 

She  seated  herself.  Her  very  silence  implied  that  she  was  all 
attention. 

"  It 's  bad  for  him  and  it 's  bad  for  you." 

«  What 's  bad  for  him  ?  " 

"  The  way  you  've  given  yourself  up  to  him.  There 's  no 
moderation  about  your  methods." 

"  If  there  had  been,"  said  she,  "  he  would  n't  be  alive  now." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that.  But  he 's  all  right  now.  He  does  n't 
want  that  perpetual  attention.  It's  ruining  him.  He  thinks 
he  's  only  got  to  scream  loud  enough  for  anything  and  he  gets  it. 


T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S  415 

Every  time  he  screams  you  rush  to  him.     It 's  preposterous." 

Jane  listened. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Brodrick,  bracing  himself,  "  you  have  him 
too  much  with  you." 

"  I  must  have  him  with  me." 

"  You  must  n't,"  said  Brodrick,  with  his  forced  gentleness. 

"You  think  I'm  bad  for  him?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Gertrude  —  do  you  think  I  'm  bad  for  him  ?  " 

Gertrude  smiled.  She  did  not  answer  any  more  than  Brod- 
rick. 

"  Miss  Collett  agrees  with  me,"  said  Brodrick. 

"  She  always  does.     What  do  I  do  to  him  ?  " 

"  You  excite  him." 

"Do  I,  Gertrude?" 

Gertrude's  face  seemed  to  be  imploring  Brodrick  to  be  pitiful^ 
and  not  to  rub  it  in. 

"  Do  I  ?  " 

"  The  child,"  said  Gertrude  evasively,  "  is  very  sensitive." 

"  And  you  create,"  Brodrick  said,  "  an  atmosphere " 

"  A  what  ?  " 

"  An  atmosphere  of  perpetual  agitation  —  of  emotion " 

"  You  mean  my  child  is  fond  of  me." 

"  Much  too  fond  of  you.     It 's  playing  the  devil  with  him." 

"Poor  mite  —  at  his  age!     Well  —  what  do  you  propose?" 

"  I  propose  that  he  should  be  with  somebody  who  has  n't  that 
effect,  who  can  keep  him  quiet.  Miss  Collett  very  kindly 
offered " 

"  Dear  Gertrude,  you  can't.     You  've  got  your  hands  full." 

"  Not  so  full  that  they  can't  hold  a  little  more."  Gertrude 
said  it  with  extreme  sweetness. 

"Can  they  hold  Hughy?" 

"  They  've  held  Jacky,"  said  Brodrick,  "  for  the  last  year.  He 
never  gives  any  trouble." 

"  He  never  feels  it.     Poor  Baby  has  got  nerves " 

"  Well,  my  dear  girl,  is  n't  it  all  the  more  reason  why  he 
should  be  with  somebody  who  has  n't  got  'em  ?  " 


416  THE     CKEA  TORS 

"  Poor  Gertrude,  she  '11  have  more  nerves  than  any  of  us  if 
she  has  to  look  after  the  house,  and  the  accounts,  and  Jacky, 
and  Hughy,  and  you " 

"  She  does  n't  look  after  me,"  said  Brodrick  stiffly,  and  left 
the  room. 

Jane  turned  to  Gertrude. 

"  Was  that  your  idea,  or  his  ?  " 

"  How  can  any  idea  be  mine,"  said  Gertrude,  "  if  I  always 
agree  with  Mr.  Brodrick?  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  the  Doc- 
tor's." 

"  Yes.     It  was  very  like  him." 

"  He  spoke  to  Mr.  Brodrick  yesterday.  And  I  am  glad  he 
did." 

"  Why  are  you  glad  ?  " 

"  Because  it  was  taken  out  of  my  hands.  I  don't  want  you 
to  think  that  I  interfere,  that  I  put  myself  forward,  that  I  sug- 
gested this  arrangement  about  the  children.  If  it 's  to  be,  you 
must  understand  distinctly  that  I  and  my  ideas  and  my  wishes 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  If  I  offered  myself  it  was  because 
I  was  compelled.     Mr.  Brodrick  was  at  his  wits'  end." 

("Poor  dear,  I  drove  him  there,"  said  Jane.) 

"  It 's  put  me  in  a  very  difficult  position.  I  have  to  appear 
to  be  taking  everything  on  myself,  to  be  thrusting  myself  in 
everywhere,  whereas  the  truth  is  I  can  only  keep  on"  (she 
closed  her  eyes,  as  one  dizzied  with  the  perilous  path  she  trod) 
"by  ignoring  myself,  putting  myself  altogether  on  one  side." 

"  Do  you  hate  it  ?  "  Jane  said  softly. 

"  No.  It 's  the  only  way.  But  sometimes  one  is  foolish  — 
one  looks  for  a  little  recognition  and  reward " 

Jane  put  her  hands  on  the  other  woman's  shoulders  and  gazed 
into  her  face. 

"  We  do  recognize  you,"  she  said,  "  even  if  we  don't  reward 
you.     How  can  we,  when  you  've  done  so  much  ?  " 

"My  reward  would  be  —  not  to  be  misunderstood." 

"Do  I  misunderstand  you?     Does  he?" 

"Mr.  Brodrick?     Never." 

"I,  then?" 


THE     CREATORS  417 

"  You  ?  I  think  you  thought  I  wanted  to  come  between  you 
and  the  children." 

"  I  never  thought  you  wanted  to  come  between  me  and  any- 
thing." 

Her  hands  that  held  her  dropped. 

"  But  you  're  right,  Gertrude.  I  'm  a  brute  and  you  're  an 
angel." 

She  turned  from  her  and  left  her  there. 


LIV 

SHE  knew  that  she  had  dealt  a  wound,  and  she  was  sorry  for 
it.  It  was  awful  to  see  Gertrude  going  about  the  house  in 
her  flagrant  secrecy.  It  was  unbearable  to  Jane,  Gertrude's  soft- 
flaming,  dedicated  face,  and  that  little  evasive,  sacred  look  of 
hers,  as  if  she  had  her  hand  for  ever  on  her  heart,  hiding  her 
wound.  It  was  a  look  that  reminded  Jane,  and  was  somehow, 
she  felt,  intended  to  remind  her,  that  Gertrude  was  pure  spirit 
as  well  as  pure  womanhood  in  her  too  discernible  emotion.  Was 
it  not  spiritual  to  serve  as  she  served,  to  spend  as  she  spent  her- 
self, so  angelically,  bearing  the  dreadful  weight  of  Brodrick's 
marriage  —  the  consequences,  so  to  speak,  of  that  corporeal  tie  — 
on  her  winged  shoulders? 

She  could  see  that  Hugh  looked  at  it  in  that  light  (as  well 
he  might)  when  one  evening  he  spoke  remorsefully  of  the  amount 
they  put  on  her. 

A  month  had  passed  since  he  had  given  the  care  of  his  chil- 
dren into  Gertrude's  hands.  She  was  up-stairs  now  superintend- 
ing their  disposal  for  the  night.  He  and  Jane  were  alone  in  a 
half-hour  before  dinner,  waiting  for  John  and  Henry  and  the 
Protheros  to  come  and  dine.  The  house  was  very  still,  Brod- 
rick  could  not  have  believed  that  it  was  possible,  the  perfection 
of  the  peace  that  had  descended  on  them.  He  appealed  to  Jane. 
She  could  n't  deny  that  it  was  peace. 

Jane  did  n't  deny  it.  She  had  nothing  whatever  to  say  against 
an  arrangement  that  had  turned  out  so  entirely  for  the  children's 
good.  She  kept  her  secret  to  herself.  Her  secret  was  that  she 
would  have  given  all  the  peace  and  all  the  perfection  for  one 
scream  of  Hughy's  and  the  child's  arms  round  her  neck. 

"  You  would  n't  know,"  Brodrick  said,  "  that  there  was  a 
child  in  the  house." 

418 


THECEEATOES  419 

Jane  agreed.  Ah,  yes,  if  that  was  peace,  they  had  it. 
Well,  wasn't  it?  After  that  infernal  row  he  made?  You 
could  n't  say  anything  when  the  poor  little  chap  was  ill  and 
could  n't  help  it,  but  you  could  n't  have  let  him  cultivate  scream- 
ing as  a  habit.  It  was  wonderful  the  effect  that  woman  had  on 
him.  He  could  n't  think  how  she  did  it.  It  was  as  if  her  mere 
presence  in  a  room 

He  thought  that  Jane  was  going  to  admit  that  as  she  had 
admitted  everything,  but  as  he  looked  at  her  he  saw  that  her 
mouth  had  lifted  at  its  winged  corners,  and  her  eyes  were  darting 
their  ominous  light. 

"  It 's  awful  of  me,  I  know,"  she  said,  "  but  her  presence  in  a 
room  —  in  the  house,  Hugh  —  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  could  scream 
the  roof  off." 

(He  glanced  uneasily  at  her.) 

"  She  makes  me  want  to  do  things." 

"  \?hat  things  ?  "  he  inquired  mildly. 

"  The  things  I  must  n't  —  to  break  loose  —  to  kick  over  the 
traces " 

"  You  don't  surprise  me."  He  smoothed  his  face  to  the 
expression  proper  to  a  person  unsurprised,  dealing  imperturbably 
with  what  he  had  long  ago  foreseen. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  that  if  Gertrude  were  not  so  good,  I 
might  be  more  so.  You  're  all  so  good,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
so  good,  so  very,  very  good." 

"  I  observe,"  said  Brodrick,  "  a  few  elementary  rules,  as  you 
do  yourself." 

"  But  I  don't  want,"  she  said,  "  to  observe  them  any  more.  I 
want  to  put  my  foot  through  all  the  rules." 

The  front  door  bell  rang  as  the  chiming  clock  struck  eight. 

"  That 's  John,"  he  said,  "  and  Henry." 

"Did  you  ever  put  your  foot  through  a  rule?  Did  John? 
Did  Henry?  .  Fancy  John  setting  out  on  an  adventure  with  his 
hair  brushed  like  that  and  his  spectacles  on " 

They  were  announced.  She  rose  to  greet  them.  They  waited. 
The  clock  with  its  soft  silver  insistence  struck  the  quarter.  It 
was  awful,  she  said,  to  have  to  live  with  a  clock  that  struck  the 


420  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

quarter;  and  Henry  shook  his  head  at  her  and  said,  "  Kerves, 
Jinny,  nerves." 

John  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I  thought,"  said  John,  "  you 
dined  at  eight," 

"  So  did  I,"  said  Brodrick.  He  turned  to  Jane.  "  Your 
friend  Prothero  does  not  observe  the  rule  of  punctuality." 

"  If  they  won't  turn  up  in  time,"  said  Henry,  "  I  should  dine 
without  them." 

They  did  dine  ultimately.  Prothero  turned  up  at  a  quarter 
to  nine,  entering  with  the  joint.  Laura  was  not  with  him. 
Laura  could  n't,  he  said,  "  get  off." 

He  was  innocent  and  unconscious  of  offence.  They  were  not 
to  bring  back  the  soup  or  fish.  Roast  mutton  was  enough  for 
him.  He  expected  he  was  a  bit  late.  He  had  been  detained  by 
Tanqueray.     Tanqueray  had  just  come  back. 

Involuntarily  Brodrick  looked  at  Jane. 

Prothero  had  to  defend  her  from  a  reiterated  charge  of  neurosis 
brought  against  her  by  Henry,  who  observed  with  disapproval 
her  rejection  of  roast  mutton. 

Over  coffee  and  cigarettes  Prothero  caught  him  up  and  whirled 
him  in  a  fantastic  flight  around  his  favourite  subject. 

There  were  cases,  he  declared,  where  disease  was  a  higher  sort 
of  health.  "  Take,"  he  said,  "  a  genius  with  a  pronounced  neu- 
rosis. His  body  may  be  a  precious  poor  medium  for  all  ordinary 
purposes.  But  he  could  n't  have  a  more  delicate,  more  lyrical, 
more  perfectly  adjusted  instrument  for  his  purposes  than  the 
nervous  system  you  call  diseased." 

When  he  had  gone  Henry  shook  off  the  discomfort  of  him 
with  a  gesture. 

"  I  've  no  patience  with  him,"  he  said. 

"  He  would  n't  expect  you  to  have  any,"  said  Jane.  "  But 
you  've  no  idea  of  the  patience  he  would  have  with  you." 

She  herself  was  conscious  of  a  growing  exasperation. 

"  I  've  no  use  for  him.  A  man  who  deliberately  constructs 
his  own  scheme  of  the  universe,  in  defiance,"  said  Henry,  "  of 
the  facts." 

"  Owen  could  n't  construct  a  scheme  of  anything  if  he  tried. 


THECEEATOES  421 

Either  he  sees  that  it 's  so,  or  he  feels  that  it 's  so,  or  he  knows 
that  it 's  so,  and  there  's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  It 's  not  a 
bit  of  good  arguing  with  him." 

"  I  should  n't  attempt  to  argue  with  him,  any  more  than  I 
should  argue  with  a  lunatic." 

"  You  consider  him  a  lunatic,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  consider  him  a  very  bad  neurotic." 

"  If  you  can't  have  genius  without  neurosis,"  said  Jane,  "  give 
me  neurosis.  You  need  n't  look  at  me  like  that,  Henry.  I  know 
you  think  I  've  got  it." 

"  My  dear  Jane " 

"  You  would  n't  call  me  your  dear  Jane  if  you  did  n't." 

"  We  're  wandering  from  the  point.  I  think  all  I  've  ever  said 
was  that  Prothero  may  be  as  great  a  poet,  and  as  neurotic  as  you 
please,  but  he 's  nothing  of  a  physiologist,  nor,  I  should  imagine, 
of  a  physician." 

"  There  you  're  wrong.  He  did  splendid  work  out  in  Africa 
and  India.  He  's  got  as  good  a  record  as  you  have  in  your  own 
profession.  It's  no  use  your  looking  as  if  you  wished  he 
hadn't,  for  he  has." 

"  You  mistake  me.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it.  In  that  case, 
why  does  n't  he  practise,  instead  of  living  on  his  wife  ?  " 

"  He  does  n't  live  on  her.  His  journalism  pays  for  his  keep  — 
if  we  're  going  to  be  as  vulgar  as  all  that." 

Jinny  was  in  revolt. 

"  I  imagine  all  the  same,"  said  John,  "  that  Prothero  's  wife 
is  considerably  the  better  man." 

"  She  'd  hate  you  if  she  knew  you  'd  said  so." 

"  Prothero's  wife,"  said  Henry,  "  is  a  lady  for  whom  I  have 
the  very  highest  admiration.  But  Prothero  is  impossible.  Im — 
possible." 

Jane  left  the  room. 


LV 

IT  seemed  to  have  struck  everybody  all  at  once  that  Prothero 
was  impossible.  That  conviction  was  growing  more  and 
more  upon  his  publishers.  His  poems,  they  assured  him,  were 
no  longer  worth  the  paper  they  were  written  on.  As  for  his 
job  on  the  "  Morning  Telegraph,"  he  was  aware  that  he  held  it 
only  on  sufferance,  drawing  a  momentary  and  precarious  income. 
He  owed  everything  to  Brodrick.  He  depended  on  Brodrick. 
He  knew  what  manner  of  men  these  Brodricks  were.  Inexhaust- 
ibly kind  to  undeserved  misfortune,  a  little  impatient  of  mere 
incompetence,  implacable  to  continuous  idiocy.  Prothero  they 
regarded  as  a  continuous  idiot. 

His  impossibility  appeared  more  flagrant  in  the  face  of  Laura's 
marvellous  achievement.  Laura's  luck  persisted  (she  declared) 
because  she  could  n't  bear  it,  because  it  was  a  fantastic  refinement 
of  torture  to  be  thrust  forward  this  way  in  the  full  blaze,  while 
Owen,  withdrawn  into  the  columns  of  the  "  Morning  Telegraph," 
became  increasingly  obscure.  It  made  her  feel  iniquitous,  as  if 
she  had  taken  from  him  his  high  place  and  his  praise.  Of  course 
she  knew  that  it  was  not  his  place  or  his  praise  that  she  had 
taken;  degradation  at  tlie  hands  of  her  appraisers  set  him  high. 
Obscurity,  since  it  meant  secrecy,  was  what  he  had  desired  for 
himself,  and  what  she  ought  to  have  desired  for  him.  She  knew 
the  uses  of  unpopularity.  It  kept  him  perfect ;  sacred  in  a  way, 
and  uncontaminated.  It  preserved,  perpetually,  the  clearness  of 
his  vision.  His  genius  was  cut  loose  from  everything  extraneous. 
It  swung  in  ether,  solitary  and  pure,  a  crystal  world,  not  yet 
breathed  upon. 

She  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise.  It  was  through  Owen's 
obscurity  that  her  happiness  had  become  so  secure  and  so  com- 
plete.    It  made  her  the  unique  guardian  of  a  high  and  secret 

422 


THE     CEEA  TORS  423 

shrine.  She  had  never  been  one  who  could  be  carried  away  by 
emotion  in  a  crowd.  The  presence  of  her  fellow-worshippers 
had  always  checked  her  impulse  to  adore.  It  was  as  much  as 
she  could  do  to  admit  two  or  three  holy  ones,  Nina  or  Jane  or 
Tanqveray,  to  a  place  beside  her  where  she  knelt. 

As  for  the  wretched  money  that  he  worried  about,  she  would  n't 
have  liked  him  to  have  made  it,  if  he  could.  An  opulent  poet 
was  ridiculous,  the  perversion  of  the  sublime.  If  one  of  them 
was  to  be  made  absurd  by  the  possession  of  a  large  and  comfort- 
able income  she  preferred  that  it  should  be  she. 

The  size  of  Laura's  income,  contrasted,  as  Prothero  persisted 
in  contrasting  it,  with  her  own  size,  was  excessively  absurd. 
Large  and  comfortable  as  it  appeared  to  Prothero,  it  was  not 
yet  so  large  nor  was  it  so  comfortable  that  Laura  could  lie  back 
and  rest  on  it.  She  was  heartrending,  irritating,  maddening  to 
Prothero  in  her  refusals  to  lie  back  on  it  and  rest.  She  toiled 
prodigiously,  incessantly,  indefatigably.  She  implored  Prothero 
to  admit  that  if  she  was  prodigious  and  incessant,  she  was  inde- 
fatigable, she  never  tired.  There  was  nothing  wonderful  in  what 
she  did.  She  had  caught  the  silly  trick  of  it.  It  could  be  done, 
she  assured  him,  standing  on  your  head.  She  enjoyed  doing  it. 
The  wonderful  thing  was  that  she  should  be  paid  for  her  enjoy- 
ment, instead  of  having  to  pay  for  it,  like  other  people.  He 
argued  vainly  that  once  you  had  achieved  an  income  it  was  no 
longer  necessary  to  set  your  teeth  and  go  at  it  like  that. 

And  the  more  he  argued  the  more  Laura  laughed  at  him.  "  I 
can't  help  it,"  she  said;  "I've  got  the  habit.  You'll  never 
break  me  of  it,  after  all  these  years." 

For  the  Kiddy,  even  in  her  affluence,  was  hounded  and  driven 
by  the  memory  of  her  former  poverty.  She  luid  no  illusions. 
She  had  never  had  them ;  and  there  was  nothing  spectral  about 
her  fear.  After  all,  looking  at  it  sanely,  it  did  n't  amount  to  so 
very  much,  what  she  had  made.  And  it  was  n't  really  an  in- 
come; it  was  only  a  little  miserable  capital.  It  had  no  stability. 
It  might  at  any  moment  cease.  She  might  have  an  illness,  or 
Owen  miglit  have  one;  he  very  probably  would,  considering  tlie 
pace  lie  went  at  it.     Or  the  "  Morning  Telegraph  "  might  throw 


434  THECREATOES 

him  over.     All  sorts  of  things  might  hajapen.     In  her  experience 
they  generally  did. 

Of  course,  in  a  way  Owen  was  right.  They  did  n't  want  all 
the  money.  But  what  he  did  n't  see  was  that  you  had  to  make 
ten  times  more  than  you  wanted,  in  order  to  secure,  ultimately, 
an  income.  And  then,  in  the  first  excitement  of  it,  she  had 
rather  launched  out.  To  begin  with,  she  had  bought  the  house, 
to  keep  out  the  other  lodgers.  They  were  always  bringing 
coughs  and  colds  about  the  place  and  giving  them  to  Owen. 
And  she  had  had  two  rooms  thrown  into  one  so  as  to  give 
Owen's  long  legs  space  to  ramp  up  and  down  in.  The  den  he 
had  chosen  had  been  too  small  for  him.  He  was  better,  she 
thought,  since  he  had  had  his  great  room.  The  house  justified 
itself.  It  was  reassuring  to  know  that  whatever  happened  they 
would  have  a  roof  over  their  heads.  But  it  could  not  be  denied 
that  she  had  been  extravagant. 

And  Owen  had  been  the  least  shade  extravagant  too.  He  had 
found  a  poet  even  more  unpopular,  more  impecunious  than  him- 
self, a  youth  with  no  balance,  and  no  power  to  right  himself 
when  he  toppled  over;  and  he  had  given  him  a  hundred  pounds 
in  one  lump  sum  to  set  him  on  his  legs  again.  And  on  the  top 
of  that  he  had  routed  out  a  tipsy  medical  student  from  a  slum, 
and  "  advanced  him,"  as  the  medical  student  put  it,  twenty 
pounds  to  go  to  America  with. 

He  had  just  come  to  her  in  her  room  where  she  sat  toiling, 
and  had  confessed  with  a  childlike,  contrite  innocence  the  things 
that  he  had  done. 

'■  It  was  a  sudden  impulse,"  he  said.     "  I  yielded  to  it." 
"  Oh,  Owen  dear,  don't  have  another  soon.     These  impulses 
are  ruinous." 

He  sat  down,  overburdened  with  his  crime,  a  heartrending 
spectacle  to  Laura. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  suppose  it  was  worth  it.  It  must  have 
given  you  an  exquisite  pleasure." 

"  It  did.  That 's  where  the  iniquity  comes  in.  It  gave  me 
an  exquisite  pleasure  at  your  expense." 


THECKEATORS  425 

"  You  give  me  an  exquisite  pleasure,"  she  said,  "  in  every- 
thing you  do." 

Her  lips  made  a  sign  for  him  to  come  to  her,  and  he  came 
and  knelt  at  her  feet  and  took  her  hands  in  his.  He  bowed  his 
head  over  them  and  kissed  them. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  're  a  divine 
prodigal." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  kissing  her,  "  I  'm  a  prodigal,  a  dissolute, 
good-f  or-noting  wastrel.  I  adore  you  and  your  little  holy  hands ; 
but  I  'm  not  the  least  use  to  you.  You  ink  your  blessed  little 
fingers  to  the  bone  for  me,  and  I  take  your  earnings  and  fling 
them  away  —  in  —  in "  He  grew  incoherent  with  kiss- 
ing. 

"  In  one  night's  spiritual  deljauchery,"  said  she.  She  was 
pleased  with  her  way  of  putting  it ;  she  was  pleased,  immeasur- 
ably pleased  with  him. 

But  Owen  was  not  pleased  in  the  very  least. 

"  That,"  said  he,  "  is  precisely  what  I  do." 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her,  regarding  her  with  troubled, 
darkening  eyes.  He  was  indeed  a  mark  for  the  immortal  iron- 
ies. He  had  struggled  to  support  and  protect  her,  this  un- 
speakably dear  and  inconceivably  small  woman ;  he  looked  on  her 
still  as  a  sick  child  whom  he  had  made  well,  and  here  he  was, 
living  on  her,  living  on  Laura.  The  position  was  incredible, 
abominable,  but  it  was  his. 

She  looked  at  him  with  deep-blue,  adoring  eyes,  and  there 
was  a  pain  in  her  heart  as  she  saw  how  thin  his  hands  were,  and 
how  his  clothes  hung  away  from  his  sunken  waist. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  what  a  little  beast  I  am,  to  make  you  feel 
like  that,  when  you  're  journalizing  and  agonizing  day  and  night, 
and  when  it 's  your  own  savings  that  you  flung.  It  was,  dear," 
she  insisted. 

"  Yes,  and  as  I  've  flung  them,  I  '11  have  to  live  on  you  for  a 
year  at  least.     It  all  comes  back  to  that." 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  come  back  to  it.  Can't  you  see,  can't 
you  see,"  she  implored,  "how,  literally,  I  'm  living  on  you?  " 


426  THE     CHEAT  ORS 

"  If  you  only  did  !  " 

"  But  I  do,  I  do.  In  the  real  things,  the  things  that  matter. 
I  cling  and  suck  like  a  vampire.  AVhy  can't  you  have  the  cour- 
age of  your  opinions  ?  " 

"  My  opinions  ?  I  have  n't  any.  Hence,  no  doubt,  my  lack 
of  courage." 

"  Your  convictions,  then,  whatever  you  call  the  things  you  do 
have.  You  think,  and  I  think,  that  money  does  n't  matter. 
You  won't  even  allow  that  it  exists,  and  for  you  it  does  n't  exist, 
it  can't.  Well  then,  why  make  such  a  fuss  about  it  ?  And  what 
does  it  matter  which  of  us  earns  it,  or  who  spends  it  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  be  considering  her  point.  Then  he  put  it  vio- 
lently from  him. 

"  That 's  the  argument  of  all  the  humbugs,  all  the  consecrated 
hypocrites  that  have  ever  been.  All  the  lazy,  long-haired,  rickety 
freaks  and  loafers  who  go  nourishing  their  damned  spirituality 
at  some  woman's  physical  expense.  The  thing's  indecent,  it 's 
unspeakable.     Those  Brodricks  are  perfectly  right." 

Laura  raised  her  head.  "They?  What  have  they  got  to  do 
with  you  and  me  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal.  They  supply  me  with  work,  which  they  don't 
want  me  to  do,  in  order  to  keep  me  from  sponging  on  my  wife. 
They  are  admirable  men.  They  represent  the  sanity  and  de- 
cency of  the  world  pronouncing  judgment  on  the  fact.  No  Brod- 
rick  ever  blinked  a  fact.  When  people  ask  the  Brodricks,  What 
does  that  fellow  Prothero  do?  they  shrug  their  shoulders  and 
say,  '  He  has  visions,  and  his  wife  pays  for  them.' " 

"  But  I  don't.  It 's  the  public  that  pays  for  them.  And  your 
wife  has  a  savage  joy  in  making  it  pay.  If  it  was  n't  for  that 
I  should  loathe  my  celebrity  more  than  Jinny  ever  loathed  hers. 
It  makes  me  feel  sillier." 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  said  Prothero. 
,  "  Well  —  it 's  hard  that  I  should  have  to  entertain  imbeciles 
who  would  n't  read  you  if  they  were  paid." 

He  knew  that  that  was  the  sting  of  it  for  her. 

"They're  all  right,"  he  said.  "It's  your  funny  little 
humour  that  they  like.     I  like  it,  too." 


THE     CKEATORS  427 

But  Laura  snapped  her  teeth  and  said,  "  Damn !  Damn  my 
humour !  Well  —  when  they  use  it  as  a  brickbat  to  hurl  at  your 
head." 

She  quoted  furiously,  " '  While  her  husband  still  sings  to  deaf 
ears,  Mrs.  Prothero  has  found  the  secret  of  capturing  her  public. 
She  has  made  her  way  straight  to  its  heart.     And  the  heart  of 
Mrs.  Prothero's  public  is  unmistakably  in  the  right  place.'    Oh  — 
if  Mrs.  Prothero's  public  knew  what  Mrs.  Prothero  thinks  of  it. 
I  give  them  what  they  want,  do  I  ?     As  if  I  gave  it  them  because 
they  want  it.    If  they  only  knew  why  I  give  it,  and  how  I  'm 
fooling  them  all  the  time!     How  I  make  them  pay  —  for  you! 
Just  think,  Owen,  of  the  splendid,  the  diabolical  irony  of  it !  " 
"  So  very  small,"  he  murmured,  "  and  yet  so  fierce." 
"  Just  think,"  she  went  on,  "  how  I  'm  enjoying  myself." 
"  Just  think,"  said  Prothero,  "  how  I  am  not." 
"Then"  (she  returned  it  triumphantly),  "you're  paying  for 
my  enjoyment,  which  is  what  you  want." 

The  clock  struck  six.  She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  returned, 
bringing  an  overcoat  which  she  said  had  grown  miles  too  big 
for  him.  She  warmed  it  at  the  fire  and  helped  him  on  with  it, 
and  disappeared  for  a  moment  under  its  flapping  wings,  so  large 
was  that  overcoat. 

All  the  way  to  Fleet  Street,  Prothero,  wrapped  in  his  warm 
overcoat,  meditated  tenderly  on  his  wife's  humour. 


LVI 

NOTHING,  Tanqueray  said,  could  be  more  pathetic  than 
the  Kiddy  spreading  her  diminutive   skirts  before   Pro- 
thero,  to  shelter  that  colossal  figure. 

But  the  Kiddy,  ever  since  Tanqueray  had  known  her,  had  re- 
fused to  be  pathetic;  she  had  clenched  her  small  fists  to  repel 
the  debilitating  touch  of  sympathy.  She  was  always  breaking 
loose  from  the  hands  that  tried  to  restrain  her,  always  facing 
things  in  spite  of  her  terror,  always  plunging,  armoured,  in- 
domitable, into  the  thick  of  the  fight.  And  she  had  always 
come  through  somehow,  unconquered,  with  her  wounds  in  front. 
The  wounds  he  had  divined  rather  than  seen,  ever  since  he,  in 
their  first  deplorable  encounter,  had  stuck  a  knife  into  her.  She 
had  turned  that  defeat,  he  remembered,  into  a  brilliant  personal 
triumph;  she  had  forced  him  to  admire  her;  she  had  worn  over 
that  mark,  as  it  were,  a  gay  and  pretty  gown. 

And  now,  again,  Tanqueray  was  obliged  to  abandon  his  vision 
of  her  pathos.  The  spectacle  she  presented  inspired  awe  rather 
and  amazement;  though  all  that  she  called  on  you  to  observe,  at 
the  moment,  was  merely  an  insolent  exhibition  of  a  clever  imp. 
The  Kiddy  was  minute,  but  her  achievements  were  enormous; 
she  was  ridiculous,  but  she  was  sublime. 

She  sat  tight,  tighter  than  ever,  and  went  on.  She  wrote  one 
charming  book  after  another,  at  astonishingly  short  intervals, 
with  every  appearance  of  immemorial  ease.  She  flung  them  to 
her  scrambling  public  with  a  side  wink  at  her  friends.  "  They 
don't  know  how  I  'm  fooling  them,"  was  her  reiterated  comment 
on  her  own  performances. 

Tanqueray  exulted  over  them.     They  all  went  to  Prothero's 

profit  and  his  peace.     It  was  not  in  him  to  make  light  of  her 

popularity,  or  cast  ij;  in  her  hilarious  face.     Nor  could  he  hope 

to  equal  her  own  incomparable  levity.     She  would  come  to  him, 

428 


THECEEATOES  429 

laughing,  with  the  tale  of  her  absurdly  soaring  royalties,  and  he 
would  shout  with  her  when  she  cried,  "  The  irony  of  it,  Tanks, 
the  delicious  irony !     It  all  goes  down  to  his  account." 

"  He  's  got  another  ready  for  them,"  she  announced  one  day. 

She  always  spoke  of  her  husband's  poems  as  if  they  were  so 
many  bombs,  hurled  in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  her  public.  There 
was  nothing  like  the  pugnacity  of  the  Kiddy  in  these  years  of 
Prothero's  disaster. 

She  came  to  Tanqueray  one  evening,  the  evening  before  pub- 
lication; she  came  secretly,  while  Owen  was  in  Fleet  Street. 
Her  eyes  blazed  in  a  premature  commencement  of  hostilities. 
She  had  come  forth,  Tanqueray  knew,  to  brave  it  out,  to  show 
her  serenity,  and  the  coolness  of  her  courage  on  the  dreadful 
eve. 

It  was  impossible  to  blink  the  danger.  Prothero  could  not 
possibly  escape  this  time.  He  had  gone,  as  Tanqueray  said,  one 
better  than  his  recent  best.  And  Laura  had  got  a  book  out, 
too,  an  enchanting  book.  It  looked  as  if  they  were  doomed,  in 
sheer  perversity,  to  appear  together.  Financial  necessity,  of 
course,  might  have  compelled  them  to  this  indiscretion.  Laura 
was  bound  eventually  to  have  a  book,  to  pay  for  Prothero's ;  there 
was  n't  a  publisher  in  London  now  who  would  take  the  risk  of 
him.  But  as  likely  as  not  these  wedded  ones  flung  themselves 
thus  on  the  public  in  a  superb  disdain,  just  to  prove  how  little 
they  cared  what  was  said  about  them. 

Laura  was  inclined  to  be  reticent,  but  Tanqueray  drew  her  out 
by  congratulating  her  on  her  popularity,  on  the  way  she  kept 
it  up. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  as  if  I  did  n't  know  what  you  think  of  it. 
Me  and  my  popularity !  " 

"  You  don't  know,  and  3'ou  don't  care,  you  disgraceful  Kiddy." 

She  lifted  her  face,  a  face  tender  and  a  little  tremulous,  that 
yet  held  itself  bravely  to  be  smitten  as  it  told  him  that  indeed 
she  did  not  care. 

"  I  think  your  popularity,  and  you,  my  child,  the  most  beauti- 
ful sight  I  've  ever  seen  for  many  a  long  year." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

27 


430  THECEEATOES 

"  You  may  laugh  at  me,"  she  said. 

"  'E  is  n't  laughin'  at  you,"  Eose  interjected.  She  was  gen- 
erally admitted  to  Tanqueray's  conferences  with  Laura.  She 
sat  by  the  fire  with  her  knees  very  wide  apart,  nursing  Minny. 

"  He  is  n't,  indeed,"  said  Tanqueray.  "  He  thinks  you  a  mar- 
vellous Kiddy;  and  he  bows  his  knee  before  your  popularity. 
How  you  contrive  to  turn  anything  so  horrible  into  anything  so 
adorable  he  does  n't  know  and  never  will  know." 

"  Dear  me.     I  'm  only  dumping  down  earth  for  Owen's  roses." 

"  That 's  what  I  mean.  That 's  the  miracle.  Every  novel  you 
write  blossoms  into  a  splendid  poem." 

It  was  what  she  meant.  She  had  never  meant  anything  so 
much.  It  was  the  miracle  that  her  marriage  perpetually  re- 
newed for  her,  this  process  of  divine  transmutation,  by  which 
her  work  passed  into  Owen's  and  became  perfect.  It  passed,  if 
you  like,  through  a  sordid  medium,  through  pounds  and  shillings 
and  pence,  but  there  again,  the  medium  itself  was  transmuted, 
sanctified  by  its  use,  by  the  thing  accomplished.  She  touched 
a  consummation  beyond  consummation  of  their  marriage. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  see  it  as  I  do,"  she  said.  She  had  not  thought 
that  he  would  see. 

"  Of  course  I  see  it."  He  sat  silent  a  moment  regarding  his 
vision;  smooth-browed,  close-lipped,  a  purified  and  transmuted 
Tapqueray. 

"  What  do  you  expect,"  he  said  presently,  "  to  happen  ?  " 

"  I  expect  what  always  has  happened,  and  worse." 

"  So  do  I.  I  said  in  the  beginning  that  he  had  n't  a  chance. 
There  is  n't  a  place  for  him  anywhere  in  his  own  generation. 
He  might  just  as  well  go  on  the  Stock  Exchange  and  try  to  float 
a  company  by  singing  to  the  brokers.  It's  a  generation  of 
brokers." 

"  Beasts !  " 

"  Aunt's  lodger  is  a  broker,"  said  Eose.  "  Old  furniture 
—  real  —  and  pictures  is  'is  line." 

"  Aunt's  lodger,  I  assure  you,  will  be  thoroughly  well  damned 
if  he  takes  any  stock  in  Owen." 


THE     CEEA  TORS  431 

"  'E  'as  n't  seen  Mr.  Prothero,"  said  Rose,  "  and  you  '11 
frighten  Minny  if  you  use  such  language." 

Tanqueray  ignored  the  interruption.  "  Owen,  you  see,  is 
dangerous.  He  regards  the  entire  Stock  Exchange  as  a  hank- 
rupt  concern.  The  Stock  Exchange  resents  the  imputation  and 
makes  things  dangerous  for  Owen.  If  a  man  will  insist  on 
belonging  to  all  the  centuries  that  have  been,  and  all  the  cen- 
turies that  will  be,  he 's  bound  to  have  a  bad  time  in  his  own. 
You  can't  have  it  both  ways." 

"  I  know.  He  knows  it.  We  'd  rather  have  it  this  way.  I 
ought  n't  to  talk  as  if  he  minded,  as  if  it  could  touch  him  where 
he  is.     It 's  me  it  hurts,  not  him." 

"  It  hurts  me,  too.  Kiddy.  I  can't  stand  it  when  I  see  the 
filthy  curs  rushing  at  him.  They  've  got  to  be  kicked  into  a  cor- 
ner.    I  'm  prepared  for  them,  this  time." 

He  rose  and  went  to  his  desk  and  returned  with  an  article  in 
proof  which  he  gave  to  her. 

"  Just  look  through  that  and  see  if  it 's  any  good." 

It  was  his  vindication  of  Owen  Prothero. 

"  Oh " 

She  drew  in  her  breath.     "  How  you  have  fouglit  for  him." 

"  I  'm  fighting  for  my  own  honour  and  glory,  too." 

He  drew  her  attention  to  a  passage  where  he  called  upon 
Heaven  to  forbid  that  he  should  appear  to  apologize  for  so  great 
a  man.  He  was  only  concerned  with  explaining  why  Prothero 
was  and  would  remain  unacceptable  to  a  generation  of  brokers; 
which  was  not  so  much  a  defence  of  Prothero  as  an  indictment 
of  his  generation.     She  would  see  how  he  had  rubbed  it  in. 

She  followed,  panting  a  little  in  her  excitement,  the  admir- 
able points  he  made.  There,  where  he  showed  that  there  was 
no  reason  why  this  Celt  should  be  an  alien  to  the  Saxon  race. 
Because  (her  heart  leaped  as  she  followed)  his  genius  had  all 
the  robust  and  virile  qualities.  He  was  not  the  creature  of  a 
creed,  or  a  conviction,  or  a  theory ;  neither  was  he  a  fantastic 
dreamer.  He  was  a  man  of  realities,  the  very  type  (Tanque- 
ray had  rubbed  that  well  in)    that  hard-headed   Englishmen 


432  T  H  E     C  R  E  A  T  0  E  S 

adore,  a  surgeon,  a  physician,  a  traveller,  a  fighter  among  fight- 
ing men.  He  had  never  blinked  a  fact  (Laura  smiled  as  she. 
remembered  how  Owen  had  said  that  that  was  what  a  Brodriek 
never  did) ;  he  had  never  shirked  a  danger.  But  (Ta.iqueray, 
in  a  new  paragraph,  had  plunged  into  the  heart  of  his  subject) 
on  the  top  of  it  all  he  was  a  seer;  a  man  who  saw  through  the 
things  that  other  men  see.  And  to  say  that  he  saw,  that  he  saw 
through  things,  was  the  humblest  and  simplest  statement  of  his 
case.  To  him  the  visible  world  was  a  veil  worn  thin  by  the 
pressure  of  the  reality  behind  it;  it  had  the  translucence  that 
belongs  to  it  in  the  form  of  its  eternity.  He  was  in  a  position 
to  judge.  He  had  lived  face  to  face  and  hand  to  hand  with  all 
forms  of  corporeal  horror,  and  there  was  no  mass  of  disease  or  of 
corruption  that  he  did  not  see  in  its  resplendent  and  divine  trans- 
parency. It  was  simple  and  self-evident  to  him  that  the  world 
of  bodies  was  made  so  and  not  otherwise.  It  was  also  clear  as 
daylight  that  the  entire  scheme  of  things  existed  solely  to  un- 
fold and  multiply  and  vary  the  everlasting-to-everlasting-world- 
without-end  communion  between  God  and  the  soul.  To  him  this 
communion  was  a  fact,  a  fact  above  all  facts,  the  supremely  and 
only  interesting  fact.  It  was  so  natural  a  thing  that  he  sang 
about  it  as  spontaneously  as  other  poets  sing  about  their  love  and 
their  mistresses.  So  simple  and  so  self-evident  was  it  that  he 
had  called  his  latest  and  greatest  poems  "  Transparences." 

"  It  sounds,"  she  said,  "  as  if  you  saw  what  he  sees." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Tanqueray.     "  I  only  see  him/' 

At  that,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  clever  imp  broke  down. 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  I  love  you  —  I  don't  care  if  Eose  does 
hear  —  I  love  you  for  defending  him." 

"  Love  me  for  something  else.     He  does  n't  need  defending." 

"  Not  he !     But  all  the  same  I  love  you." 

It  was  as  if  she  had  drawn  aside  a  fold  of  her  pretty  garment 
and  shown  him,  where  the  scar  had  been,  a  jewel,  a  pearl  with 
fire  in  the  white  of  it. 


'George,"  she  said,   .  ,  .  "  I  love  yoii  for  defending  li 


LVII 

THEY  were  right.  Worse  things  were  reserved  for  Prothero 
than  had  happened  to  him  yet.  Even  Caro  Bickersteth 
Iiad  turned.  Caro  had  done  her  best  to  appreciate  competently 
this  creator  adored  by  creators.  Caro,  nourished  on  her  "  Criti- 
que of  Pure  Eeason,"  was  trying  hard  to  hold  the  balance  of 
justice  in  the  "  Morning  Telegraph  " ;  and  according  to  Caro 
there  was  a  limit.  She  had  edited  Shelley  and  she  knew.  She 
was  frankly,  as  she  said,  unable  to  follow  Mr.  Prothero  in 
his  latest  flight.  There  was  a  limit  even  to  the  imagination  of 
the  mystic,  and  to  the  poet's  vision  of  the  Transcendent.  There 
were,  Caro  said,  regions  of  ether  too  subtle  to  sustain  even  so  im- 
ponderable a  poet  as  Mr.  Prothero.  So  there  was  n't  much 
chance,  Tanqueray  remarked,  of  their  sustaining  Caro. 

But  the  weight  of  Caro's  utterances  increased,  as  they  circu- 
lated, formidably,  among  the  right  people.  All  the  little  men 
on  papers  declared  that  there  was  a  limit,  and  that  Prothero  had 
passed  it. 

It  was  barely  a  year  since  the  publication  of  his  last  volume, 
and  they  were  annoyed  with  Prothero  for  daring  to  show  his 
face  again  so  soon  in  the  absence  of  encouragement.  It  looked 
as  if  he  did  n't  care  whether  they  encouraged  him  or  not.  Such 
an  attitude  in  a  person  standing  on  his  trial  amounted  to  con- 
tempt of  court.  "When  his  case  came  up  for  judgment  in  the 
papers,  the  jury  were  reminded  that  the  question  before  them 
was  whether  Mr.  Prothero,  in  issuing  a  volume,  at  three  and 
six  net,  with  the  title  of  "  Transparences,"  and  the  sub-title  of 
"  Poems,"  was  or  was  not  seeking  to  obtain  money  under  false 
pretenses.  And  judgment  in  Prothero's  case  was  given  thus : 
Any  writer  who  wilfully  and  deliberately  takes  for  his  subject  a 
heap  of  theoretical,  transcendental  stuff,  stuff  that  at  its  best  is 
pure  hvpothesis,  and  at  its  worst  an  outrage  on  the  sane  intel- 

435 


436  THECREATOES 

ligence  of  his  readers,  stuff,  mind  you,  utterly  lacking  in  sim- 
plicity, sensuousness  and  passion,  that  writer  may  be  a  thinker, 
a  mystic,  a  metaphysician  of  unspeakable  profundity,  but  he  is 
not  a  poet.     He  stands  condemned  in  the  interests  of  Eeality. 

Laura  knew  it  did  n't  matter  what  they  said  about  him,  but 
that  last  touch  kindled  her  to  flame.  It  even  drew  fire  from 
Owen. 

"  If  I  gave  them  the  reality  they  want,"  he  cried ;  "  if  I 
brought  them  the  dead  body  of  God  with  the  grave-clothes  and 
worms  about  it,  they  'd  call  that  poetry.  I  bring  them  the  living 
body  of  God  rejoicing  in  life,  and  they  howl  at  me.  What  their 
own  poets,  their  Wordsworths  and  Tennysons  and  Brownings 
showed  them  in  fits  and  flashes,  I  show  them  in  one  continuous 
ecstasy,  and  they  can't  stand  it.  They  might  complain,  the 
beggars,  if  I  'd  given  them  a  dramatic  trilogy  or  an  epic.  But 
when  I  've  let  them  off,  Laura,  with  a  few  songs ! " 

They  were  alone  in  his  big  room.  Nina  and  Tanqueray  and 
Jane  had  come  and  praised  him,  and  Laura  had  been  very  en- 
tertaining over  Prothero's  reviews.  But,  when  they  had  gone, 
she  came  and  crouched  on  the  floor  beside  him,  as  her  way  was, 
and  leaned  her  face  against  his  hand.  Prothero,  with  the  hand 
that  was  not  engaged  with  Laura,  turned  over  the  pages  of  his 
poems.  He  was  counting  them,  to  prove  the  slenderness  of  his 
offence. 

"  Listen  to  this,"  he  said.     "  They  can't  say  it 's  nat  a  song." 

He  read  and  she  listened,  while  her  hand  clutched  his,  as  if 
she  held  him  against  the  onslaught  of  the  world. 

Her  grip  slackened  as  she  surrendered  to  his  voice.  She  lay 
back,  as  it  were,  and  was  carried  on  the  strong  wave  of  the 
rhythm.  It  was  the  questing  song  of  the  soul,  the  huntress,  on 
the  heavenly  track;  the  song  of  the  soul,  the  fowler,  who  draws 
after  her  the  streaming  worlds,  as  a  net,  to  snare  the  wings  of 
God.  It  was  the  song  of  her  outcasting,  of  the  fall  from  heaven 
that  came  of  the  too  great  rapture  of  the  soul,  of  her  wantoning 
in  the  joy  of  the  supernal,  who  forgot  God  in  possessing  him. 
It  was  the  song  of  birth,  of  the  soul's  plunging  into  darkness 


THE     CEEA  TOES  437 

and  fire,  of  the  weaving  round  her  of  the  fleshy  veils,  the  veils 
of  separation,  the  veils  of  illusion ;  the  song  of  her  withdrawal 
into  her  dim  house,  of  her  binding  and  scourging,  and  of  her 
ceaseless  breaking  on  the  wheel  of  time,  till  she  renews  her  pas- 
sion and  the  desire  of  her  return.  It  was  the  song  of  the  angels 
of  mortal  life,  sounding  its  secrets ;  angels  of  terror  and  pain, 
carding  the  mortal  stuff,  spinning  it  out,  finer  and  yet  more  fine, 
till  every  nerve  becomes  vibrant,  a  singing  lyre  of  God ;  angels  of 
the  passions  and  the  agonies,  moving  in  the  blood,  ministers  of 
the  flame  that  subtilizes  flesh  to  a  transparent  vehicle  of  God ; 
strong  angels  of  disease  and  dissolution,  undermining,  pulling 
down  the  house  of  pain. 

He  paused  and  she  raised  her  head. 

"  Owen  —  that 's  what  you  once  tried  to  make  me  see.  Do 
you  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  you  said  that  I  was  intoxicated  and  that  it  was  all 
very  dim  and  disagreeable  and  sad." 

"  I  did  n't  understand  it  then,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  understand  it  now.     You  feel  it." 

"  Why  did  n't  I  feel  it  then  ?     When  you  said  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  say  it.  How  could  I  ?  There  's  no  other  way  of 
saying  it  but  this.  It  is  n't  a  theory  or  a  creed ;  if  it  were  it 
could  be  stated  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  It 's  the  supreme 
personal  experience,  and  this  is  the  only  form  in  which  it  could 
possibly  be  conveyed.  These  words  were  brought  together  from 
all  eternity  to  say  this  thing." 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  'm  convinced  of  the  truth  of  it,  even 
now.  I  only  feel  the  passion  of  it.  It 's  the  passion  of  it,  Owen, 
that  '11  make  it  live." 

"  The  truth  and  the  passion  of  it  are  the  same  thing,"  he 
said. 

He  went  on  chanting.  The  music  gathered  and  rose  and 
broke  over  her  in  the  last  veroC,  in  the  song  of  consummation, 
of  the  soul's  passion,  jubilant,  transcendent,  where,  of  the  veils 
of  earth  and  heaven,  the  veils  of  separation  and  illusion,  sbe 
weaves  the  veil  of  the  last  bridal,  the  fine  veil  of  immortality. 


438  THECEEATOES 

In  the  silence  Laura  stirred  at  his  side.  She  had  possessed 
herself  of  his  hand  again  and  held  it  firmly,  as  if  she  were  afraid 
that  he  might  be  taken  from  her  in  his  ecstasy. 

She  was  thinking:  He  used  that  theme  before,  in  the  first 
poem  of  his  I  ever  heard.  He  was  mistaken.  There  was  more 
than  one  way  of  saying  the  same  thing.  She  reminded  him  of 
this  earlier  poem.  Surely,  she  said,  it  was  the  same  thing,  the 
same  vision,  the  same  ecstasy,  or,  if  he  liked,  the  same 
experience  ? 

He  did  not  answer  all  at  once;  he  seemed  to  be  considering 
her  objection,  as  if  he  owned  that  it  might  have  weight. 

No,  he  said  presently,  it  was  not  the  same  thing.  Each  ex- 
perience was  solitary,  unique,  it  had  its  own  incommunicable 
quality.  He  rose  and  found  the  earlier  poem,  and  brought  it  to 
her  that  she  might  see  the  difference. 

She  shook  her  head;  but  she  had  to  own  that  the  difference 
was  immense.  It  was  the  difference  (so  she  made  it  out)  be- 
tween a  vision  that  you  were  sure  of,  and  a  vision  of  which  you 
were  not  so  sure.  And  —  yes  —  it  was  more  than  that ;  it  was 
as  if  his  genius  had  suffered  incarnation,  and  its  flame  were  in- 
tenser  for  having  passed  through  flesh  and  blood.  It  was  the 
incorruptible  spirit  that  cried  aloud ;  but  there  was  no  shrill 
tenuity  in  its  cry.  The  thrill  it  gave  her  was  unlike  the  shock 
that  she  remembered  receiving  from  the  poem  of  his  youth,  the 
shiver  they  had  all  felt,  as  at  the  passing  by  of  the  supersensual. 
Her  husband's  genius  commanded  all  the  splendours,  all  the 
tumultuous  energies  of  sense.  His  verse  rose,  and  its  wings 
shed  the  colours  of  flame,  blue,  purple,  red,  and  gold  that  kindled 
into  white;  it  dropped  and  ran,  striking  earth  with  untiring, 
impetuous  feet,  it  slackened :  and  still  it  throbbed  with  the  heat 
of  a  heart  driving  vehement  blood.  But,  she  insisted,  it  was  tlie 
same  vision.  How  could  she  forget  it?  Did  he  suppose  that 
she  had  forgotten  the  moment,  four  years  ago,  when  Tanqueray 
had  read  the  poem  to  them,  and  it  had  flashed  on  her ? 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said;  "it  flashed  all  right.  It  flashed  on  me. 
But  it  did  no  more.  There  was  always  the  fear  of  losing  it. 
The  difference  is  that  —  now  —  there  isn't  anv  fear." 


THE     CREA  TOES  439 

She  said,  "  Ah,  I  remember  how  afraid  you  were." 

"  I  was  afraid,"  he  said,  "  of  you." 

She  rose  and  lifted  her  arms  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  shoulders.  He  had  to  stoop  to  let  her  do  it.  So  held,  he 
could  n't  hope  to  escape  from  her  candid,  searching  eyes. 

"  You  are  n't  afraid  of  me  now  ?  I  have  n't  made  it  go  ?  You 
have  n't  lost  it  through  me  ?  " 

"  You  've  made  it  stay." 

"  Have  I  ?     Have  I  done  that  for  you  ?  " 

He  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  sob  of  passion.  "  Ah  —  the 
things  you  do  !  " 

"  None  of  them  matter  except  that,"  she  said. 

She  left  him  with  that,  turning  on  the  threshold  to  add,  "  Why 
bother,  then,  about  the  other  stupid  things  ?  " 

It  was  as  if  she  had  said  to  him  that  since  he  owed  that  to 
her,  a  debt  so  unique,  so  enormous  that  he  could  never  dream  of 
paying  it  back  in  one  lifetime,  was  n't  it  rather  absurd  and  rather 
mean  of  him  to  make  a  fuss  about  the  rest  ?  How  could  he  think 
of  anything  but  that  ?  Did  n't  the  one  stupendous  obligation 
cover  everything,  and  lay  him,  everlastingly  abject,  at  her  feet? 
The  only  graceful  act  left  him  was  to  kneel  down  and  kiss  her 
feet.  And  that  was  what,  in  spirit,  he  was  always  doing.  As 
for  her,  she  would  consider  herself  paid  if  she  saw  the  difference 
and  knew  that  she  had  made  it. 

It  was  only  now,  in  the  hour  of  achievement,  that,  looking 
back  and  counting  all  his  flashes  and  his  failures,  he  realized  the 
difference  she  had  made.  It  had  seemed  to  him  once  that  he 
held  his  gift,  his  vision,  on  a  fragile  and  uncertain  tenure,  that 
it  could  not  be  carried  through  the  tumult  and  shock  of  the 
world  without  great  danger  and  difficulty.  The  thing,  as  he 
had  said,  was  tricky ;  it  came  and  went ;  and  the  fear  of  losing  it 
was  the  most  overpowering  of  all  fears. 

He  now  perceived  that,  from  the  beginning,  the  thing  that 
had  been  most  hostile,  most  dangerous  to  his  vision  Avas  this  fear. 
Time  after  time  it  had  escaped  him  when  he  had  hung  on  to  it 
too  hard,  and  time  after  time  it  had  returned  when  he  had  let 
it  go,  to  follow  the  thundering  batteries  of  the  world.     He  had 


440  T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S 

not  really  lost  it  when  he  had  left  off  clutching  at  it  or  had  flung 
himself  with  it  into  the  heart  of  the  danger.  He  could  not  say 
that  he  had  seen  it  in  the  reeking  wards,  and  fields  bloody  with 
battle,  or  when  his  hands  were  at  their  swift  and  delicate  work 
on  the  bodies  of  the  wounded.  But  it  had  the  trick  of  coming 
back  to  him  in  moments  when  he  least  looked  for  it.  He  saw 
now  that  its  brief  vanishings  had  been  followed  by  brief  and 
faint  appearances,  and  that  when  it  had  left  him  longest  it  had 
returned  to  stay.  The  times  of  utter  destitution  were  succeeded 
by  perfect  and  continuous  possession.  He  saw  that  nothing  had 
been  fatal  to  it  except  his  fear. 

He  had  tested  it  because  of  his  fear.  He  had  chosen  his  pro- 
fession as  the  extreme  test,  because  of  his  fear.  He  had  given 
up  his  profession,  again  because  of  his  fear,  fear  of  success  in  it, 
fear  of  the  world's  way  of  rewarding  heroism,  the  dreadful  fear 
of  promotion,  of  being  caught  and  branded  and  tied  down.  He 
had  thought  that  to  be  forced  into  a  line,  to  be  committed  to 
medicine  and  surgery,  was  to  burn  the  ships  of  God,  to  cut  him- 
self off  for  ever  from  his  vision. 

Looking  back,  he  saw  that  his  fear  of  the  world  had  been 
nothing  to  his  fear  of  women,  of  the  half-spiritual,  half-sensual 
snare.  He  had  put  away  this  fear,  and  stood  the  ultimate  test. 
He  had  tied  himself  to  a  woman  and  bowed  his  neck  for  her  to 
cling  to.  He  would  have  judged  this  attitude  perilous  in  the 
extreme,  incompatible  with  vision,  with  seeing  anything  but  two 
diminutive  feet  and  the  inches  of  earth  they  stood  in.  And  it 
was  only  since  he  had  done  this  dangerous  thing  and  done  it 
thoroughly,  only  since  he  had  staked  his  soul  to  redeem  his 
body,  that  his  vision  had  become  secure.  It  really  stayed.  He 
could  turn  from  it,  but  it  was  always  with  him;  he  could  hold 
and  command  it  at  his  will. 

She  was  right.  If  he  could  take  that  from  her,  if  he  was  in 
for  it  to  that  extent,  why  did  he  bother  about  the  other  stupid 
things? 

And  yet  he  bothered.  All  that  autumn  lie  worked  harder  than 
ever  at  his  journalism.  He  seemed  to  gather  to  himself  all  the 
jobs  that  were  going  on  the  "Morning  Telegraph."     He  went 


THE     CREA  TOES  441 

the  round  of  the  theatres  on  tirst  nights,  reporting  for  the 
"  Morning  Telegraph  "  on  plays  that  were  beneath  the  notice  of 
its  official  dramatic  critic.  He  reviewed  poetry  and  belles  lettres 
for  the  "  Morning  Telegraph;  "  and  he  did  a  great  deal  of  work 
for  it  down  in  Fleet  Street  with  a  paste-pot  and  a  pair  of  scissors. 

Prothero's  genius  had  liberated  itself  for  the  time  being  in  his 
last  poem ;  it  was  detached  from  him ;  it  w^andered  free,  like  a 
blessed  spirit  invisible,  while  Prothero's  brain  agonized  and 
journalized  as  Laura  said.  There  was  no  compromise  this  time, 
no  propitiation,  no  playing  with  the  beautiful  prose  of  his  occa- 
sional essays.  He  plunged  from  his  heavenly  height  sheer  into 
the  worst  blackness  of  the  pit;  he  contorted  himself  there  in  his 
obscure  creation  of  paragraphs  and  columns.  His  spirit  writhed 
like  a  fine  flame,  trammelled  and  tortured  by  the  grossness  of  the 
stuff  it  kindled,  and  the  more  it  writhed  the  more  he  piled  on  the 
paragraphs  and  columns.  He  seemed,  Laura  said,  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  seeing  how  much  he  could  pile  on  without  extinguish- 
ing it. 

In  December  he  caught  cold  coming  out  of  a  theatre  on  a  night 
of  north  wind  and  sleet,  and  he  was  laid  up  for  three  weeks  watli 
bronchitis. 

And  at  night,  that  winter,  when  sounds  of  coughing  came 
from  the  Consumption  Hospital,  they  were  answered  through  the 
open  windows  of  the  house  with  the  iron  gate.  And  Laura  at 
Owen's  side  lay  awake  in  her  fear. 


LVIII 

THERE  was  one  thing  that  Prothero,  in  his  journalism, 
drew  the  line  at.  He  would  not,  if  they  paid  him  more 
than  they  had  ever  paid  him,  more  than  they  had  ever  dreamed 
of  paying  anybody,  he  would  not  review  another  poet's  work. 
For  some  day,  he  said,  Nicky  will  bring  out  a  volume  of  his 
poems,  and  in  that  day  he  will  infallibly  turn  to  me.  If,  in  that 
day,  I  can  lay  my  hand  upon  my  heart  and  swear  that  I  never 
review  poetry,  that  I  never  have  reviewed  it  and  never  shall,  I 
can  look  Nicky  in  his  innocent  face  with  a  clean  soul. 

But  when  Nicky  actually  did  it  (in  the  spring  of  nineteen- 
nine)  Prothero  applied  to  Brodrick  for  a  holiday.  He  wanted 
badly  to  get  out  of  town.  He  could  not  —  when  it  came  to  the 
agonizing  point  —  he  could  not  face  Nicky. 

At  least  that  was  the  account  of  the  matter  which  Tanqueray 
gave  to  Brodrick  when  the  question  of  Prothero's  impossibility 
came  up  again  at  Moor  Grange.  Brodrick  was  indignant  at 
Prothero's  wanting  a  holiday,  and  a  month's  holiday.  It  was 
preposterous.     But  Jane  had  implored  him  to  let  him  have  it. 

Jinny  would  give  a  good  deal,  Tanqueray  imagined,  to  get  out 
of  town  too.  It  was  more  terrible  for  her  to  face  Nicky  than  for 
any  of  them.  Tanqueray  himself  was  hiding  from  him  at  that 
moment  in  Brodrick's  study.  But  Jinny,  with  that  superb  and 
incomprehensible  courage  that  women  have,  was  facing  him  down 
there  in  the  drawing-room. 

It  was  in  the  drawing-room,  later  on  in  the  afternoon,  that 
Brodrick  found  his  wife,  shrunk  into  a  corner  of  the  sofa  and 
mopping  her  face  with  a  pocket-handkerchief.  Tanqueray 
had  one  knee  on  the  sofa  and  one  arm  flung  tenderly  round 
Jinny's  shoulder.  He  met,  smiling,  the  husband's  standstill  of 
imperturbable  inquiry. 

442 


THE     CEEA  TORS  443 

"  It 's  all  right,  Brodrick/'  he  said.  "  I  've  revived  her.  I  've 
been  talking  to  her  like  a  father." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  and  commented  — 

"  Nicky  brought  a  book  of  poems  out  and  Jinny  cried." 

"  It  was  th  —  th  —  the  last  straw,"  sobbed  Jinny, 

Brodrick  left  them  together,  just  to  show  how  imperturbable 
he  was. 

"  George,''  she  said,  "  it  was  horrible.  Poor  Nicky  stood  there 
where  you  are,  waiting  for  me  to  say  things.  And  I  could  n't, 
I  could  n't,  and  he  saw  it.     He  saw  it  and  turned  white " 

"  He  is  white,"  said  Tanqueray. 

"  He  turned  whiter.  And  he  burst  out  into  a  dreadful  per- 
spiration. And  then  —  oh,  don't  laugh  —  it  was  so  awful  —  he 
took  my  hand  and  wrung  it,  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  very 
dignified  and  stiff." 

"  My  dear  child,  he  only  thought  you  were  speechless  with 
emotion." 

But  Jane  was  putting  on  her  hat  and  coat  which  lay  beside 
her. 

"  Let 's  get  out  somewhere,"  she  said,  "  anywhere  away  from 
this  intolerable  scene.     Let 's  tear  over  the  Heath." 

She  tore  and  he  followed.     Gertrude  saw  them  go. 

She  turned  midway  between  Putney  and  Wimbledon.  "  Oh, 
how  my  heart  aches  for  that  poor  lamb." 

"  It  need  n't.     The  poor  lamb's  heart  does  n't  ache  for  itself." 

"  It  does.     I  stabbed  it." 

"  Not  you  !  " 

"  But,  George  —  they  were  dedicated  to  me.  Could  my  cup 
of  agony  be  fuller?" 

"  I  admit  it 's  full." 

"  And  how  about  Nicky's  ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Jinny.  If  you  or  I  or  Prothero  had  written  those 
poems  we  should  be  drinking  cups  of  agony.  But  there  is  no 
cup  of  agony  for  Nicky.  He  believes  that  those  poems  are  im- 
mortal, and  that  none  of  us  can  rob  them  of  their  immortality." 

"  But  if  he  's  slaughtered  —  and  he  will  be  —  if  they  fall  on 
him  and  tear  him  limb  from  limb,  poor  innocent  lamb !  " 


444  THECEEATOES 

"  He  is  n't  innocent,  your  lamb.  He  deserves  it.  So  he  won't 
get  it.  It 's  only  poets  like  Prothero  who  are  torn  limb  from 
limb." 

"  I  don't  know.  There  are  people  who  'd  stick  a  knife  into 
him  as  soon  as  look  at  him." 

"  If  there  are  he  '11  be  happy.  He  '11  believe  that  there  's  a 
plot  against  him  to  write  him  down.  He  '11  believe  that  he  's 
Keats.  He  '11  believe  anything.  You  need  n't  be  sorry  for  him. 
If  only  you  or  I  had  Nicky's  hope  of  immortality  —  if  we  only 
had  the  joy  he  has  even  now,  in  the  horrible  act  of  creation. 
Why,  he  's  never  tired.  He  can  go  on  for  ever  without  turning 
a  hair,  whereas  look  at  our  hair  after  a  morning's  work.  Think 
what  it  must  be  to  feel  that  you  never  can  be  uninspired,  never 
to  have  a  doubt  or  a  shadowy  misgiving.  Neither  you  nor  I 
nor  Prothero  will  ever  know  a  hundredth  part  of  the  rapture 
Nicky  knows.  We  get  it  for  five  minutes,  an  hour,  perhaps, 
and  all  the  rest  is  simply  hard,  heavy,  heartbreaking,  grinding 
labour." 

Their  wild  pace  slackened. 

"  It 's  a  dog's  life,  3fours  and  mine.  Jinny.  Upon  my  soul,  for 
mere  sensation,  if  I  could  choose  I  'd  rather  be  Nicky." 

He  paused. 

"  And  then  —  wheii  you  think  of  his  supreme  illusion " 

"  Has  he  another  ?  " 

"  You  know  he  has.  If  all  of  us  could  believe  that  when  the 
woman  we  love  refuses  us  she  only  does  it  because  of  her 
career " 

"  If  he  did  believe  that " 


"  Believe  it  ?  He  believes  now  that  she  did  n't  even  refuse 
him.  He  thinks  he  renounced  her  —  for  the  sake  of  her  career. 
It 's  quite  possible  he  thinks  she  loves  him ;  and  really,  consider- 
ing her  absurd  behaviour " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  she  moaned,  "  he  can  believe  anything 
he  likes  if  it  makes  him  happier." 

"  He  IS  happy,"  said  George  tempestuously.  "  If  I  were  to 
be  born  again,  I  'd  pray  to  the  high  gods,  the  cruel  gods,  Jinny, 
to  make  me  mad  —  like  Nicky  —  to  give  me  the  gift  of  inde- 


THE     CREATORS  445 

structible  illusion.  Then,  perhaps,  I  might  know  what  it  was  to 
live." 

She  had  seen  him  once,  and  only  once,  in  this  mood,  the  night 
he  had  dined  with  her  in  Kensington  Square  six  weeks  before  he 
married  Rose. 

"  But  you  and  I  have  been  faithful  to  reality  —  true,  as  they 
say,  to  life.  If  the  idiots  who  fling  that  phrase  about  only  knew 
what  it  meant !  You  've  been  more  faithful  than  I.  You  've 
taken  such  awful  risks.  You  fling  your  heart  down.  Jinny, 
every  time." 

"Do  you  never  take  risks?  Do  you  never  fling  your  heart 
down  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her.  "Not  your  way.  Not  unless  I  hiow  that 
I  '11  get  what  I  want." 

"  And  have  n't  you  got  it  ?  " 

"  I  've  got  most  of  it,  but  not  all  —  yet." 

His  tone  might  or  might  not  imply  that  getting  it  was  only 
a  question  of  time. 

"  I  say,  where  are  you  going?" 

She  was  heading  rapidly  for  Augustus  Road.  She  wanted  to 
get  away  from  George. 

"  Not  there,"  he  protested,  perceiving  her  intention. 

"  I  must." 

He  followed  her  down  the  long  road  where  the  trees  drooped 
darkly,  and  he  stood  with  her  by  the  gate. 

"  How  long  will  you  be?  "  he  said. 

"  I  can't  say.  Half-an-hour  —  three-quarters  —  ever  so 
long." 

He  waited  for  an  hour,  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down 
the  long  road  under  the  trees.  She  reappeared  as  he  was  turn- 
ing at  the  far  end  of  it.     He  had  to  run  to  overtake  her. 

Her  face  had  on  it  the  agonv  of  unborn  tears. 

"What  is  it.  Jinny?"  he  said. 

"Mabel  Brodrick." 

She  hardly  saw  his  gesture  of  exasperation. 

"  Oh,  George,  she  suffers.  It 's  terrible.  There  's  to  be  an 
operation  —  to-morrow.     I  can  think  of  nothing  else." 


446  THE     CEEATOES 

"  Oh,  Jinny,  is  there  no  one  to  take  care  of  you  ?  Is  there  no 
one  to  keep  you  from  that  woman  ?  " 

"  Oh  don't  —  if  you  had  seen  her " 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  her,  I  don't  want  you  to  see  her.  You 
should  never  have  anything  to  do  with  suffering.  It  hurts  you. 
It  kills  you.  You  ought  to  be  taken  care  of.  You  ought  to  be 
kept  from  the  sight  and  sound  of  it."  He  gazed  wildly  round 
the  Heath.  "  If  Brodrick  was  any  good  he  'd  take  you  out  of 
this  damned  place." 

"  I  would  n't  go.  Poor  darling,  she  can't  bear  me  out  of  her 
sight.     I  believe  I  've  worn  a  path  going  and  coming." 

They  had  left  the  beaten  path.  Their  way  lay  in  a  line  drawn 
straight  across  the  Heath  from  Brodrick's  house.  It  was  almost 
as  if  her  feet  had  made  it. 

"  Jinny's  path,"  he  said. 

They  were  silent,  and  he  gathered  up,  as  it  were,  the  bur- 
den of  their  silence  when  he  stopped  and  faced  her  with  his  ques- 
tion — 

"  How  are  you  going  on  ?  " 


LIX 

AYEAE  passed  and  half  a  year,  and  she  had  not  found  an 
answer  to  Tanqueray's  question. 

She  had  gone  on  somehow.  He  himself  had  made  it  easier 
for  her  by  his  frequent  disappearances.  He  had  found  a  place 
somewhere  on  Dartmoor  where  he  hid  himself  from  the  destroy- 
ers, from  the  dreadful  little  people,  where  he  hid  himself  from 
Eose.     It  helped  her  —  not  to  have  the  question  raised. 

ISTow  (they  were  in  August  of  nineteen-ten)  Tanqueray  was 
back  again  with  his  question.  He  had  left  her,  abo.ut  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  in  her  study,  facing  it.  Not  but  that  he 
had  provided  her  with  a  solution,  a  positive  solution.  "  Jinny," 
he  had  said,  "why  don't  you  do  as  I  do?  Why  don't  you  go 
away,  if  it  was  only  for  a  few  months  every  year  ?  '' 

It  seemed  so  simple,  Tanqueray's  solution,  that  at  first  she 
wondered  why  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  before.  But  as  she 
looked  back  over  the  last  three  years  she  saw  why.  It  could 
not  have  occurred  to  her  as  long  as  she  had  had  the  charge  of 
her  own  children.  She  would  not  be  entertaining  it  now  if  Ger- 
trude were  not  there,  looking  after  them.  And  it  would  not 
have  been  possible  if  the  baby,  the  little  girl,  her  third  child,  had 
lived.  She  had  wanted  to  have  a  little  girl,  just  to  show  what 
she  could  do.  She  had  said,  "  There  shall  be  one  happy  woman 
in  the  world  and  she  shall  be  my  daughter." 

But  the  little  girl  had  never  lived  at  all.  She  had  been 
brough  forth  dead  in  the  night  that  followed  Mabel  Brodrick's 
death.  Jane  had  been  with  Mabel  when  she  died.  That  was 
in  January  six  months  ago. 

After  that  there  had  come  the  great  collapse,  the  six  weeks 

when  she  lay  quiet  and  Gertrude,  like  an  angel,  waited  on  her. 

She  had  been  allowed  to  have  the  little  boys  with  her  for  hours 

at  a  time  then,  she  being  utterlv  unable  to  excite  them.     Some- 
28  447 


448  THECPtEATOES 

times,  when  she  was  not  well  enough  to  have  them  very  long, 
Gertrude  would  bring  them  in  to  look  at  her,  the  little  solemn- 
eyed,  quiet  boys,  holding  Gertrude's  hands.  Every  day  brought 
her  a  moment  of  pain  wlien  she  saw  them  going  out  of  the  room 
with  Gertrude,  led  by  her  hand. 

For  six  weeks  Brodrick  had  been  left  very  much  to  Gertrude. 
And  Gertrude's  face  in  that  time  had  flowered  softly,  as  if  she 
had  entered  herself  into  the  peace  she  made. 

But  in  March  Jane  was  on  her  feet  again.  In  April  Brodrick 
took  her  to  the  Eiviera,  and  her  return  (in  May)  was  the  return 
of  that  brilliant  and  distracting  alien  who  had  invaded  Brod- 
rick's  house  seven  years  ago.  Jane  having  nothing  to  do  but  to 
recover  had  done  it  so  completely  that  Henry  admitted  that  he 
would  not  have  known  her.  To  which  she  had  rather  ominously 
replied  that  she  knew  herself,  only  too  well. 

Even  before  she  went  away,  even  lying  quiet,  she  had  been 
aware  that  life  was  having  its  triumphant  will  of  her.  She  had 
known  all  along,  of  course,  that  (as  Owen  Prothero  had  told  her) 
she  was  sound  through  and  through.  Her  vitality  was  uncon- 
querable. Nothing  could  wreck  her.  Even  Henry  would  own 
that  her  body,  when  they  gave  it  a  chance,  was  as  fine  a  physical 
envelope  as  any  woman  could  wish  to  have.  Lying  quiet,  she 
had  been  inclined  to  agree  with  Henry  that  genius  —  her  genius 
at  any  rate  —  was  a  neurosis ;  and  she  was  not  going  to  be  neu- 
rotic any  more.  Whatever  it  was,  it  had  made  things  terribly 
complicated.  And  to  Jane  lying  quiet  they  had  become  absurdly 
simple.  She  herself  was  simplified.  She  had  been  torn  in 
pieces ;  and  in  putting  herself  together  again  she  had  left  out 
the  dangerous,  disintegrating,  virile  element.  Whatever  hap- 
pened now,  she  would  no  longer  suffer  from  the  presence  in  her 
of  two  sexes  contending  for  the  mastery.  Through  it  all, 
through  all  her  dreadful  virility,  she  had  always  been  persistently 
and  preposterously  feminine.  And  lying  quiet  she  was  more 
than  ever  what  George  Tanqueray  had  said  she  was  not  to  be  — 
a  mere  woman. 

Therefore  to  Jane,  lying  quiet,  there  had  been  no  question  of 
how  she  was  to  go  on. 


THECEEATOES  449 

But  to  Jane  on  her  feet  again,  in  all  her  ungovernable,  dis- 
astrous energy,  the  question  was  as  insistent  as  Tanqueray  him- 
self. Her  genius  had  recognized  its  own  vehicle  in  her  body 
restored  to  perfect  health,  and  three  years'  repression  had  given 
it  ten  times  its  power  to  dominate  and  torture.  It  had  thriven 
on  the  very  tragedies  that  had  brought  her  low. 

It  knew  its  hour  and  claimed  her.  She  was  close  upon  thirty- 
nine.  It  would  probably  claim  her  without  remission  for  the 
next  seven  years.  It  had  been  relentless  enough  in  its  youth ;  it 
would  be  terrible  in  its  maturity.  The  struggle,  if  she  struggled, 
would  tear  her  as  she  had  never  yet  been  torn.  She  would  have 
to  surrender,  or  at  any  rate  to  make  terms  with  it.  It  was  use- 
less to  fall  back  upon  the  old  compromises  and  adjustments. 
Tanqueray's  solution  was  the  only  possible,  the  only  tolerable 
one.     But  it  depended  perilously  upon  Hugh's  consent. 

She  went  to  him  in  his  study  where  he  sat  peaceably  smoking 
in  the  half-hour  before  bed-time. 

Brodrick  merely  raised  his  eyebrows  as  she  laid  it  before  him 
• —  her  monstrous  proposal  to  go  away  —  for  three  months.  He 
asked  her  if  three  months  was  not  rather  a  long  time  for  a  woman 
to  leave  her  home  and  her  children? 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "but  if  I  don't " 

"Well?" 

"  I  shall  go  to  pieces." 

He  looked  at  her  critically,  incredulously. 

"Why  can't  you  say  at  once  what's  wrong?"  he  said.  "Is 
there  anything  you  want  that  you  don't  have  here?  Is  there 
any  mortal  thing  that  can  be  done  that  is  n't  done?  " 

"  Not  any  mortal  thing." 

"  What  is  it  then  ?  " 

"  Hugh  dear,  did  it  never  strike  you  that  you  are  a  very  large 
family  ?  And  that  when  it  comes  down  on  me  it 's  in  the  pro- 
portion of  about  seven  to  one  ?  " 

"  \\nioever  docs  come  down  on  you  ?  " 

"  John,"  said  she,  "  was  with  me  for  two  hours  yesterday." 

Brodrick  lent  his  ear  as  to  a  very  genuine  grievance.  John, 
since  his  bereavement,  was  hardly  ever  out  of  the  house. 


450  THECKEATOES 

"  And  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  he  bored  you  ?  " 

"  No,  but  he  will  call  when  I  'm  writing." 

"  Why  on  earth  don't  you  send  him  away  ?  " 

"  I  would,  if  Mabel  had  n't  died.  But  how  can  you  when  he  's 
unhappy  ?  It  would  hurt  him  so.  And  yet,  supposing  you  were 
to  die,  what  would  John  say  if  I  were  to  call  on  him  at  the  works 
every  day,  and  play  with  his  dynamos  to  distract  my  mind,  or 
sit  with  him  in  his  office  rumpling  his  hair,  and  dislocating  his 
ideas  till  he  didn't  know  the  difference  between  a  steam-roller 
and  an  internal  combustion  engine?  That's  more  or  less  what 
John  does  to  me.     The  only  thing  is  to  get  away." 

However,  it  was  for  Brodrick  to  decide,  she  said.  And  Brod- 
rick  said  he  could  n't  decide  until  he  had  thought  it  over. 

She  was  very  soon  aware  that  she  had  caused  a  scandal  in  her 
husband's  family  by  her  proposal  to  go  away  for  three  months. 
The  scandal  was  not  altogether  unconnected  with  George  Tan- 
queray,  since  it  was  at  his  suggestion  that  she  proposed  to  take 
this  unprecedented  step.  If  she  had  proposed  to  take  it  with 
him  they  could  hardly  have  shown  themselves  more  horrified. 

She  knew  how  monstrous  her  conduct  must  appear  to  them. 
She  could  see  it  all  so  clearly  from  their  point  of  view.  That 
had  always  been  after  all  her  poor  merit,  that  she  could  see 
things  from  other  people's  point  of  view.  Her  vision  indeed  of 
them,  of  the  way  they  took  things,  was  apt  to  be  so  vivid,  so  en- 
grossing that  it  left  her  with  no  point  of  view  of  her  own.  She 
carried  into  life  itself  and  all  its  relations  her  virtue  as  an 
artist,  that  effacement  of  her  observing  self  in  favour  of  the  thing 
observed. 

That,  Nina  told  her,  was  her  danger.  Nina  happened  to  be 
with  her  on  the  day  when  another  family  committee  met  and  sat 
upon  her  ease.  They  were  sitting  on  it  now,  up-stairs  with 
Brodrick  in  his  study.  She  knew  infallibly  what  their  judg- 
ment would  be.  Just  as  she  had  seemed  to  them  so  long  a 
creature  of  uncertain  health,  she  must  seem  now  inconstant,  in- 
sincere, the  incarnation  of  heartlessness,  egotism  and  caprice. 
She  said  to  herself  that  it  was  all  very  well  for  Nina  to  talk. 
This  insight  was  a  curse.     It  was  terrible  to  know  what  people 


THE     CREATORS  451 

were  thinking,  to  feel  what  they  were  feeling.  And  they  were 
seven  to  one,  so  that  when  she  gave  them  pain  she  had  to  feel 
seven  times  the  pain  she  gave. 

But  after  all  they,  her  judges,  could  take  care  of  themselves. 
This  family,  that  was  one  consolidated  affection,  was  like  a  wall, 
it  would  shelter  and  protect  her  so  long  as  she  was  content  to  be 
sheltered  and  protected ;  if  she  dashed  herself  against  it  it  would 
break  her  in  pieces. 

And  Nina  was  saying,  "  Can't  you  take  it  into  your  own 
hands?  Why  should  you  let  these  people  decide  your  fate  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Hugh  will  decide  it,"  she  said.  "  He  's  with  them  up-stairs 
now." 

"  Is  he  asking  their  advice  ?  " 

"  No,  they  're  giving  it  him.     That 's  my  chance,  Nina." 

"  Your  chance  ?  " 

"  My  one  chance.  They  '11  put  his  back  up  and,  if  it 's  only 
to  show  them,  he  '11  let  me  go." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Jinny,  that  if  he  did  n't  you  would  n't 
go?" 

"  I  don't  even  know  that  I  'd  go  if  he  minded  very  much." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  George  Tanqueray  was  here.  He  might 
make  you " 

"What  has  he  ever  made  me  do?  " 

"  He  might  make  you  see  it." 

"  I  do  see  it,"  said  Jane. 

She  closed  her  eyes  as  one  tired  with  much  seeing.  Nina's 
presence  hardly  helped  her.  Nina  was  even  more  profoundly 
disturbing  than  George  Tanqueray;  she  had  even  less  of  conso- 
lation to  offer  to  one  torn  and  divided,  she  herself  being  so 
supreme  an  instance  of  the  glory  of  the  single  flame. 

The  beauty  and  the  wonder  of  it  —  in  Nina  —  was  its  puritv. 
Nina  showed  to  what  a  pitch  it  had  brought  her,  the  high,  un- 
divided passion  of  her  genius.  Under  it  every  trace  of  Nina's 
murkiness  had  vanished.  She  had  lost  that  look  of  restless,  has- 
gard  adolescence,  that  horrible  intentness,  as  if  her  hand  was 
always  on  the  throat  of  her  wild  beast.     You  saw,  of  course,  that 


453  THECREATOKS 

she  had  suffered;  but  you  saw  too  that  her  genius  was  appeased 
by  her  suffering.  It  was  just,  it  was  compassionate;  it  had  re- 
warded her  for  every  pang. 

Jane  found  herself  saying  beautiful  things  about  Nina's 
genius.  It  was  the  flame,  unmistakably  the  pure  flame.  If  soli- 
tude, if  virginity,  if  frustration  could  do  that She  knew 

what  it  had  cost  Nina,  but  it  was  worth  it,  seeing  what  she  had 
gained. 

Nina  faced  her  with  tlie  eyes  that  had  grown  so  curiously  quiet. 

"  Ah,  Jinn}^/'  she  said,  "  could  you  have  borne  to  pay  my 
price  ?  " 

She  owned  that  she  could  not. 

Up-stairs  Brodrick  faced  his  family  where  it  sat  in  judgment 
upon  Jane. 

"  Wliat  does  she  complain  of  ?  "  said  John. 

"  Interruption,"  said  Hugh.  ''  She  says  she  never  has  any 
time  to  herself,  with  people  constantly  running  in  and  out." 

"  She  does  n't  mind,"  said  Sophy,  "  how  much  time  she  gives 
to  the  Protheros  and  the  rest  of  them.  Nina  Lempriere  's  with 
her  now.  She  's  been  here  three  solid  hours.  As  for  George 
Tanqueray " 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  That  '&  what  I  don't  like,  Hugh,  Tanqueray's  hanging  about 
the  house  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night.  However  you  look 
at  it,  it 's  a  most  undesirable  thing." 

"  Oh  —  Tanqueray,"  said  Brodrick,  "  he  's  all  right." 

"  He  's  anything  but  all  right,"  said  Henry.  "  A  fellow  who 
notoriously  neglects  his  wife." 

"  Well,"  said  Brodrick,  "  I  don't  neglect  mine." 

"  If  you  give  her  her  head,"  said  Henry. 

He  scowled  at  Henry. 

"  You  know,  Hugh,"  said  Frances,  "  she  really  will  be  talked 
about.'^ 

"  She 's  being  talked  about  now,"  said  Brodrick,  "  and  I  don't 
like  it." 

"  There  's  no  use  talking,"  said  John  sorrowfully,  and  he  rose 
to  go. 


THE     CREATORS  453 

They  all  rose  then.  Two  by  two  they  went  across  the  Heath 
to  John's  house,  Sophy  with  Henry  and  Frances  with  John ;  and 
as  they  went  they  leaned  to  each  other,  talking  continuously  about 
Hugh,  and  Tanqueray,  and  Jane. 

"  If  Hugh  gives  in  to  her  in  this,"  said  Henry,  "  he  '11  always 
have  to  give  in." 

"  I  could  understand  it/'  said  Sophy,  "  if  she  had  too  much  to 
do  in  the  house." 

"  It 's  not,"  said  Frances,  "  as  if  there  was  any  struggle  to 
make  ends  meet.     She  has  everything  she  wants." 

"  Children "  said  John. 

"  It 's  preposterous,"  said  Henry. 

When  Nina  had  gone  Brodrick  came  to  Jane. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  do  you  still  want  to  go  away  for  three 
months  ?  " 

"  It 's  not  that  I  want  to,  but  I  must." 

"  If  you  must,"  he  said,  "  of  course  you  may.  I  dare  say  it 
will  be  a  very  good  thing  for  you." 

"  Shall  you  mind,  Hugh  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  me,  no.  I  shall  be  very  comfortable  here  with  Ger- 
trude." 

"  And  Gertrude,"  she  murmured,  "  will  be  very  comfortable 
here  with  you." 

That  evening,  about  nine  o'clock,  the  parlourmaid  announced 
to  Brodrick  in  his  study  that  Miss  Winny  and  Mr.  Eddy  had 
called.  They  were  in  the  dining-room.  When  Brodrick  asked 
if  Mrs.  Brodrick  was  with  them  he  was  told  that  the  young  gen- 
tlemen had  said  expressly  that  it  was  Mr.  Brodrick  whom  they 
wished  to  see. 

Brodrick  desired  that  they  should  be  brought  to  him.  They 
were  going  away,  to  stay  somewhere  with  a  school-fellow  of 
Winny's,  and  he  supposed  that  they  had  looked  in  to  say  good- 
bye. 

As  they  entered  something  told  him,  as  he  had  not  been  told 
before,  that  his  young  niece  and  nephew  had  grown  up.  It  was 
not  Winny's  ripening  form  and  trailing  gown,  it  was  not  the 
golden  down  on  Eddy's  upper  lip ;  it  was  not  altogether  that  the 


454  THECEEATOES 

outline  of  their  faces  had  lost  the  engaging  and  tender  indecision 
of  its  youth.  It  was  their  unmistakable  air  of  inward  assur- 
ance and  maturity. 

After  the  usual  greetings  (Brodrick  was  aware  of  a  growing 
restraint  in  this  particular)  Eddy,  at  the  first  opening,  made  for 
his  point — their  point,  rather.  His  uncle  had  inquired  with 
urbane  irony  at  what  hour  the  family  was  to  be  bereaved  of  their 
society,  and  how  long  it  would  have  to  languish 

They  were  going,  Eddy  said,  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  a 
jolly  good  thing  too.  They  were  n't  coming  back,  either,  any 
sooner  than  they  could  help.  They  —  well,  they  could  n't 
"  stick  it "  at  home  just  now. 

They  'd  had  (Winny  interpolated)  a  row  with  Uncle  Henry,  a 
gorgeous  row  (the  colour  of  it  was  in  Winny's  face). 

Brodrick  showed  no  sign  of  surprise,  not  so  much  as  a  raised 
eyebrow.     He  asked  in  quiet  tones  what  it  was  all  about  ? 

Eddy,  standing  up  before  his  uncle  and  looking  very  tall  and 
manly,  gazed  down  his  waistcoat  at  his  boots. 

"  It  was  about  Jin-Jin,"  Winny  said. 

(Eddy  could  almost  have  sworn  that  his  uncle  suffered  a  slight 
shock. ) 

"  We  can't  stick  it,  you  know,  the  way  they  're  going  on  about 
her.  The  fact  is,"  said  the  tall  youth,  "  we  told  Uncle  Henry 
that,  and  he  did  n't  like  it." 

"You  did,  did  you?" 

"  Yes.  I  know  you  '11  say  it  is  n't  our  business,  but  you 
see " 

"You  see"  (Winny  explained),  "we're  so  awfully  fond  of 
her." 

Brodrick  knew  that  he  ought  to  tell  the  young  rascals  that 
their  being  fond  of  her  did  n't  make  it  any  more  their  business. 
But  he  could  n't. 

"  What  did  you  say  to  your  Uncle  Henry  ?  " 

He  really  wanted  to  know, 

"  Oh,  we  said  it  was  all  humbug  about  Jinny  being  neurotic. 
He's  neurotic  himself  and  so  he  thinks  everybody  else  is.  He's 
got  it  regularly  on  the  brain." 


THECREATORS  455 

(If,  Brodrick  thought,  Henry  could  have  heard  him!) 

"  You  can't  think,"  said  Winny,  "  how  he  bores  us  with  it." 

"  I  said  he  could  n't  wonder  if  she  was  neurotic,  when  you 
think  what  she  's  got  to  stand.  The  boresomeness  — —  "  He 
left  the  idea  to  its  own  immensity. 

"Of  what?  "said  Brodrick. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  you  know,  of  living  everlastingly  with 
Gertrude." 

Brodrick  said,  "  Gertrude  does  n't  bore  anybody." 

"  She  does  n't  bore  you,  Uncle  Hugh,  of  course,  because  you  're 
a  man." 

(Winny  said  that.) 

"  Then,"  said  Eddy,  "  there  's  us.  You  know,  we  're  an  awful 
family  for  a  woman  like  Jinny  to  have  married  into.  There 
is  n't  one  of  us  fit  to  black  her  boots.  And  I  believe  Uncle 
Henry  thinks  she  was  n't  made  for  anything  except  to  bring 
more  of  us  into  the  world." 

Brodrick's  face  displayed  a  fine  flush. 

"  You  're  all  right.  Uncle  Hugh." 

Brodrick  lowered  his  eyelids  in  modest  acceptance  of  this 
tribute. 

"  I  keep  forgetting  you  're  one  of  them,  because  you  married 
her." 

"  What  else  did  you  say  to  him?  " 

Eddy  became  excited.  "  Oh  —  I  got  in  one  before  we  left  — 
I  landed  him  neatly.  I  asked  him  why  on  earth  —  if  he  thought 
she  was  neurotic  —  he  let  her  shut  herself  up  for  a  whole  year 
with  that  screaming  kid,  when  any  fat  nurse  would  have  done 
the  job  as  well?  And  why  he  let  her  break  her  neck,  running 
round  after  Aunt  Mabel?     I  had  him  there." 

"  WTiat  did  your  Uncle  say  to  that?"  (Brodrick's  voice  was 
rather  faint.) 

"  He  did  n't  say  anything.  He  could  n't  —  oh  —  well,  he 
did  say  my  impertinence  was  unendurable.  And  I  said  his  was, 
when  you  think  what  Jinny  is.  " 

He  meditated  on  it.  He  had  become,  suddenly,  a  grave  and 
reverent  youth. 


456  THE     CREATORS 

"  We  really  came,"  Winny  said,  "  to  know  whether  Jinny  is 
going  away  ?  " 

"  She  is  going  away,'^  said  Brodrick,  "  for  three  months." 

He  rose  and  held  out  the  hand  of  parting.  To  his  surprise 
Winny  kissed  him  and  kept  her  face  against  his  as  she  whispered, 
"  And  if  —  she  has  to  stay  a  year  ?  " 

"  She  shall  stay,"  Brodrick  said. 


LX 

SHE  went  down  to  Devonshire,  to  a  farm-house  not  far  from 
Chagford,  on  the  edge  of  Dartmoor.  Tanqueray  had 
rooms  there  which  were  his  and  nobody  else's,  and  he  had  lent 
them  to  her  for  three  months,  or  for  as  long  as  she  cared  to 
stay.  She  would  be  safe  there,  he  said.  Nobody  would  find 
her. 

Certainly  it  would  be  hard  to  find  her,  so  remote  and  hidden 
was  the  place.  The  farm,  which  was  small  and  humble,  stood 
in  a  deep  lane  cut  off  from  Chagford  by  a  hill.  The  lane  dipped 
abruptly  from  the  hillside;  it  plunged;  it  went  down,  at  noon,  as 
into  a  pit  of  darkness.  The  white-washed  house,  lodged  on  a 
flat  break  in  the  descent,  sucked  light  through  its  high  ring  of 
ash-trees.  Below  it  the  lane  went  headlong  to  the  hill-bottom. 
It  was  perched  on  a  hill,  hugged  in  a  valley,  according  as  you 
approached  it  from  the  north-east  or  the  south-west. 

The  doorway  was  guarded  by  a  deep,  white-walled  porch. 
You  came  straight  into  an  ancient  low-roofed,  white-washed 
kitchen,  now  the  living-room  for  the  eccentric  stranger  who  had 
made  his  lodging  there.  A  stairway  led  up  from  it  into  the 
bedroom  overhead.  This  living-room  had  a  door  that  opened 
into  a  passage  joining  it  to  further  and  dimmer  parts  of  the 
house ;  but  the  bedroom  was  inaccessible  save  by  its  own  stair. 

By  the  deep-set  window  of  each  room  there  stood  a  firm,  solid 
oak  table,  at  which,  the  woman  of  the  farm  had  told  her,  Mr. 
Tanqueray  wrote.  Both  windows  looked  on  to  the  lane.  That 
was  the  beauty  of  it,  Tanqueray  had  said.  There  would  be 
nothing  to  distract  her.  You  could  n't  trust  Jinny  on  the 
open  moor. 

For  the  first  week  Jinny,  cut  off  from  her  husband  and 
children,  was  assailed  by  a  poignant  and  perpetual  misery.  As 
one  who  has  undergone  a  surgical  operation,  she  suffered  an  in- 

457 


458  THBCEEATOES 

veterate  nerve-aching  after  the  severed  flesh.  She  was  haunted 
by  Brodrick's  face  as  she  had  seen  it  from  her  corner  of  the  rail- 
way carriage,  looking  in  at  her  through  the  window,  silent  and 
overcast,  and  by  his  look,  his  unforgettable  look  as  the  train  car- 
ried her  away.  And  the  children,  their  faces  and  their  soft 
forms  and  their  voices  haunted  her.     She  did  no  work  that  week. 

Then  the  country  claimed  her.  Dartmoor  laid  on  her  its 
magic  of  wild  earth  and  wild  skies.  She  tried  to  write  and  could 
not.  Something  older  and  more  powerful  than  her  genius  had 
her.  She  suffered  a  resurgence  of  her  youth,  her  young  youth 
that  sprang  from  the  moors,  and  had  had  its  joy  in  them  and 
knew  its  joy  again.  It  was  on  the  moors  that  earth  had  most 
kinship  and  communion  with  the  sky.  It  took  the  storms  of 
heaven.  Its  hills  were  fused  with  heaven  in  fires  of  sunset ;  they 
wore  the  likeness  of  the  clouds,  of  vapour  and  fine  air.  On  the 
moors  it  was  an  endless  passing  of  substance  into  shadow  and  of 
shadow  into  substance. 

And  she  had  her  own  kinship  and  conununion  with  them.  She 
remembered  these  hillsides  grey  as  time,  where  the  grass  was  a 
perishing  bloom  on  the  face  of  the  immemorial  granite.  A 
million  memories  and  instincts  met  in  these  smells  of  furze  and 
heather  and  moss,  of  green  rushes  and  the  sweet  earth  of  the 
south-west. 

Tanqueray  was  right.  She  was  not  to  be  trusted  on  the  open 
moors.  She  was  out  of  doors  all  day.  And  out  of  doors  the 
Idea  that  had  driven  her  forth  withdrew  itself.  Its  very  skirts, 
only  half-discerned,  were  beyond  her  grasp.  She  was  oppressed 
at  times  by  a  sense  of  utter  frustration  and  futility.  If  this  was 
all ;  if  she  was  simply  there  enjoying  herself,  tramping  the  hills 
all  day,  a  glorious  animal  set  free ;  if  she  was  not  going  to 
accomplish  anything,  then  she  had  no  business  to  be  there  at  all. 
It  would  be  better  to  give  it  up,  to  give  in,  to  go  back  again. 

There  was  a  day  in  her  third  week  when  she  nearly  did  go 
back,  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  be  obeying  a  wise 
instinct  if  she  went.  She  got  as  far  as  looking  up  the  trains 
to  "Waterloo. 

Then,  on  the  brink  of  it,   something  that  announced  itself 


THECEEATOES  459 

as  a  wiser  and  profounder  instinct,  an  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion, told  her  not  to  go.  It  told  her  to  wait,  to  trust  to  Nature's 
way,  and  to  Nature's  wisdom  in  bringing  back  her  youth.  Na- 
ture's way  was  to  weave  over  again  the  web  of  life  so  strained 
and  worn,  so  tangled  and  broken  by  the  impact  of  other  lives. 
Nature's  wisdom  was  to  make  her  simple  and  strong,  a  new 
creature,  with  a  clean  vision  and  an  imagination  once  more  virgin 
to  the  world.  In  short.  Nature's  beneficent  intention  was  to 
restore  her  whole  to  the  genius  which  also  had  been  a  part  of 
Nature's  plan. 

And  all  the  time  good  news  of  Brodrick  and  the  children 
reached  her  every  other  day.  Punctually,  every  other  day  Ger- 
trude Collett  wrote,  assuring  her  that  all  was  going  well  at  home 
and  urging  her  to  stay.  Brodrick  wrote  (at  rather  longer  in- 
tervals) saying  how  happy  the  children  were,  and  how  entirely 
comfortable  he  was  with  Gertrude.  His  letters  contained  little 
besides  praise  of  Gertrude.  There  was  no  reason,  he  reiterated, 
why  she  should  not  stay. 

She  stayed,  and  in  her  fifth  week  she  received  the  reward  of 
her  staying.  Walking  back  to  the  farm  late  one  evening,  the 
moors  veiled  from  her  passion  by  the  half-darkness,  her  Idea 
came  back  to  her.  It  came,  not  yet  with  the  vividness  of  flesh 
and  blood,  but  like  a  ghost.  It  had  ghostly  hands  and  feet,  and 
like  a  ghost  it  walked  the  road  with  her.  But  through  its  pres- 
ence she  felt  in  herself  again  that  nascent  ecstasy  which  foretold, 
infallibly,  the  onset  of  the  incredible  act  and  labour  of  creation. 

AYhen  she  reached  the  farm  she  found  George  Tanqueray  sit- 
ting in  the  porch.  The  lamp-light  through  the  open  door  re- 
vealed him. 

"  Whatever  brought  you  here  ?  "  she  said. 

"  What  always  brings  me." 

She  understood  him  to  mean  that  he  also  had  been  driven 
forth,  and  was  in  subjection  to  the  Idea. 

"  Have  you  come  to  turn  me  out  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  Jinny." 

He  explained  that  he  was  staying  in  the  village,  at  the  Three 
Crowns.     He  had  arrived  that  evening  and  had  walked  over. 


460  THE     CREATORS 

He  followed  her  into  the  deep  kitchen.  At  the  supper-table 
his  place  had  been  laid  for  him  already.     He  had  ordered  it  so. 

He  looked  at  her,  smiling  an  apology. 

"  Is  it  all  right  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Perfectly  all  right,  George." 

They  talked  all  evening  and  far  into  the  night.  She  parted 
from  him  at  the  gate  of  the  lane  under  the  ash-trees.  Under  the 
ash-trees  her  Idea  showed  in  its  immense  and  luminous  perfec- 
tion. It  trembled  into  life.  It  drew  her,  palpitating,  into  the 
lamp-light  of  the  room. 

She  had  found  what  she  liad  come  for. 

That  was  the  effect  he  always  had  on  her. 


LXI 

BEODEICK  had  been  alone  in  the  first  fortnight  that  fol- 
lowed Jane's  extraordinary  departure.  Instead  of  settling 
down  to  be  comfortable  with  Gertrude,  he  had  packed  her  off 
to  the  seaside  with  the  children  and  their  nurse.  He  had  often 
wondered  what  he  should  do  without  Gertrude.  Now  he  knew. 
He  knew  by  incontrovertible  experiment  that  he  could  not  do 
without  her  at  all.  Everything,  even  the  silver-chiming  clock, 
■went  wrong  in  her  absence. 

If,  before  that  fortnight,  Brodrick  had  been  asked  suddenly 
with  what  feelings  he  regarded  Gertrude  Collett,  he  would  have 
replied  that  he  was  unaware  of  regarding  the  lady  with  any  feel- 
ings, or  indeed  of  regarding  her  intimately  at  all.  And  he 
would  have  told  the  simple  truth;  for  Brodrick  was  of  all  men 
the  most  profoundly  unaware. 

Of  course,  there  was  gratitude.  He  had  always  been  aware  of 
that.  But  in  that  fortnight  his  gratitude  took  on  immense 
proportions,  it  became  a  monstrous  and  indestructible  indebted- 
ness. He  would  have  said  that  such  a  feeling,  so  far  from 
making  him  comfortable  with  Gertrude,  would  have  made  him 
very  uncomfortable,  much  more  uncomfortable  than  he  cared  to 
be.  But  curiously  it  was  not  so.  In  his  renewed  intercourse 
with  Gertrude  he  found  a  vague,  exquisite  satisfaction.  The 
idea  of  not  paying  Gertrude  back  in  any  way  would  have  been 
intolerable;  but  what  he  felt  now  was  so  very  like  affection  that 
it  counted  as  in  some  measure  a  return.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
settled  it  in  his  own  mind  that  he  could  now  meet  the  innocent 
demands  which  the  angelic  woman  seemed  to  make.  Goodness 
knew  it  was  n't  much  to  ask,  a  little  attention,  a  little  display  of 
the  feeling  so  very  like  affection,  after  all  that  she  had  done. 

It  pleased  him  now  when  he  came,  mooning  drearily,  into  the 
drawing-room,  to  find  Gertrude  in  possession.     He  was  almost 

461 


463  THE     CREATORS 

always  tired  now,  and  he  was  glad  to  lie  back  in  an  easy-chair 
and  have  his  tea  handed  to  him  by  Gertrude.  He  looked  for- 
ward, in  fancy,  to  the  children's  hour  that  followed  tea-time, 
and  he  had  made  a  great  point  at  first  of  having  them  to  himself. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  being  almost  always  tired,  he  enjoyed 
their  society  far  more  sincerely  when  Gertrude  was  there  to 
keep  them  in  order. 

That  was  her  gift.  She  had  been  the  genius  of  order  ever 
since  she  had  come  into  his  house  —  good  gracious,  was  it  ten 
years  ago?  Her  gift  made  her  the  most  admirable  secretary  an 
editor  could  have.  But  she  was  more  than  that  now.  She  was 
a  perfect  companion  to  a  physically  fatigued  and  intellectually 
slightly  deteriorated  man.  He  owned  to  the  deterioration. 
Jane  had  once  told  him  that  his  intellect  was  a  "  lazy,  powerful 
beast."  It  seemed  to  him  now,  humbly  regarding  it,  that  the 
beast  was  and  always  had  been  much  more  lazy  than  powerful. 
It  required  constant  stimulus  to  keep  it  going.  His  young  ambi- 
tion and  his  young  passion  for  Jane  Holland  had  converged  to 
whip  it  up.  It  flagged  with  the  dying  down  of  passion  and 
ambition.  Things  latterly  had  come  a  bit  too  late.  His  dream 
had  been  realized  too  late.  And  he  had  n't  realized  it,  either. 
Jane  had  realized  it  for  him.  No  sooner  had  he  got  his  won- 
derful magazine  into  his  own  hands  than  he  found  out  how  little 
he  cared  about  it.  He  had  become  more  and  more  absorbed 
in  its  external  and  financial  aspects.  He  showed  more  and  more 
as  the  man  of  business,  the  slightly  hustled  and  harassed  father 
of  a  family.  He  had  put  off  intellectual  things.  His  deteri- 
oration weighed  on  him  when  he  thought  of  Jane.  But  Ger- 
trude's gentleness  stood  between  him  and  any  acute  perception 
of  his  state. 

Sometimes  when  they  sat  together  over  her  fire,  lit  in  the 
September  evenings,  there  would  be  long  silences.  Gertrude 
never  broke  a  silence.  She  was  conscious  of  it;  she,  as  it  were, 
held  it  —  he  could  almost  feel  her  holding  it  —  tenderly,  as  if 
she  loved  it;  she  handled  it  gently  as  if  she  were  afraid  that  it 
would  break.     She  gave  him  so  much  sense  of  her  presence  and 


THECREATOES  463 

no  more.  She  kept  before  him,  humbly,  veiled  from  his  vision, 
the  fact  that  she  was  there  to  serve  him. 

Sometimes  a  curious  shyness  would  come  on  her.  It  was  not 
the  poignant  shyness  of  her  youth  which  Brodrick  had  once 
found  so  distressing.  It  conveyed  no  fear  and  no  embarrassment, 
only  (so  he  made  it  out)  the  quietest,  subtlest  hint  of  possible 
fliglit.  Its  physical  sign  was  the  pale,  suffused  flame  in  Ger- 
trude's face,  and  that  web  of  air  across  her  eyes.  There  was  a 
sort  of  cliarm  about  it. 

Sometimes,  coming  upon  Gertrude  alone  and  unaware  of  him, 
he  would  find  her  sad.  He  said  to  himself  then  that  she  had 
no  great  cause  for  gaiety.  It  was  a  pretty  heavy  burden  for 
her,  this  shouldering  of  another  woman's  responsibilities.  He 
thought  that  Jane  had  sometimes  been  a  little  hard  on  her.  He 
supposed  that  was  her  (Jane's)  feminine  way.  The  question  was 
whether  he  himself  might  not  have  been  kinder;  whether  there 
was  n't  anything  that  he  might  yet  do  to  make  life  sweeter  to 
her.  He  was,  in  fact,  profoundly  sorry  for  Gertrude,  more 
profoundly  sorry  than  he  had  been  ten  years  ago,  when  she  had 
come  to  him,  and  he  had  kept  her,  though  he  did  n't  want  her, 
because  he  was  sorry  for  her.  Well,  he  wanted  her  enough  now 
in  all  conscience. 

Then  the  horrible  thought  would  occur  to  him:  supposing 
Gertrude  were  to  go?     It  was  not  conceivable,  her  going. 

For,  above  all  her  gifts,  Gertrude  was  an  incomparable  mother 
to  those  unfortunate  children  (since  Jane's  departure  Brodrick 
had  begun  to  think  definitely  of  his  children  as  unfortunate). 
It  was  distinctly  pleasurable  the  feeling  with  which  he  watched 
her  ways  in  gathering  them  to  her  side  and  leading  them  softly 
from  the  room  when  "  Daddy  was  busy,"  or  when  "  poor  Daddy 
was  so  tired."  More  than  once  he  found  himself  looking  out  of 
his  study  window  at  her  quiet  play  with  the  little  boys  in  the 
garden.  Solemn  little  boys  they  were;  and  sometimes  he  won- 
dered whether  little  Jacky  were  not  too  solemn,  too  preter- 
naturally  quiet  for  four  and  a  half,  and  rather  too  fond  of 
holding  Gertrude's  hand.     He  remembered  how  the  little  beggar 

29 


464  THECEEATOKS 

used  to  romp  and  laugh  when  Jinny And  remembering 

he  would  turn  abruptly  from  the  window  with  a  sore  heart  and  a 
set  face. 

Three  weeks  passed  thus.  There  was  a  perceptible  increase  in 
Gertrude's  shyness  and  sadness. 

One  evening  after  dinner  she  came  to  him  in  his  study.  He 
rose  and  drew  forward  a  chair  for  her.  She  glanced  at  his 
writing-table  and  at  the  long  proof-sheets  that  hung  from  it, 
streaming. 

"  I  must  n't,"  she  said.     "  You  're  busy." 

"Well  — not  so  busy  as  all  that.     What  is  it?" 

"  I  've  been  thinking  that  it  would  perhaps  be  better  if  I  were 
to  leave." 

"  To  leave?     What 's  put  that  into  your  head?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  She  appeared  to  him  dumb  with  dis- 
tress. 

"  Have  the  children  been  too  much  for  you  ?  " 

"  Poor  little  darlings  —  no." 

"  Little  monkeys.  Send  them  to  me  if  you  can't  manage 
them." 

"  It  is  n't  that.  It  is  —  I  don't  think  it 's  right  for  me  to 
stay." 

"^oi  rigUV 

"  On  the  children's  account,  I  mean." 

He  looked  at  her  and  a  shade,  a  tremor,  of  uneasiness  passed 
over  his  face. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  think  they  're  unhappy  ?  " 

(She  smiled). 

" —  Without  their  mother  ?  "  He  jerked  it  out  with  a  visible 
elTort. 

"  No.     If  they  were  I  should  n't  be  so  uneasy." 

"  Come,  you  don't  want  them  to  be  unhappy,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  want  anybody  to  be  unhappy.  That 's  why 
I  think  I  'd  better  go." 

"  On  their  account  ?  "  he  repeated,  hopelessly  adrift. 

"  Theirs,  and  their  mother's." 


THECREATOES  465 

"  But  it 's  on  their  account  —  and  —  their  mother's  —  that 
we  want  you." 

"  I  know ;  but  it  is  n't  fair  to  them  or  to  —  Mrs.  Brodrick 
that  they  should  be  so  dependent  on  me." 

"But  — they're  babies." 

"Not  quite  —  now.  It  isn't  right  that  I  should  be  taking 
their  mother's  place,  that  they  should  look  to  me  for  every- 
thing." 

"  But,"  he  broke  in  irritably,  "  they  don't.  Why  should 
they  ?  " 

"  They  do.  They  must.  You  see,  it 's  because  I  'm  on  the 
spot." 

"  I  see."    He  hid  his  frowning  forehead  with  one  hand. 

"  I  know,"  she  continued,  "  it  can't  be  helped.  It  is  n't  any- 
body's fault.     It 's  —  it 's  inevitable." 

"  Yes.     For  the  present  it 's  —  inevitable." 

They  both  paused  on  that  word. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  you  're  really  afraid  that  they  '11  get 
too  fond  of  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  They  're  very  fond  of  their  mother,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  if  she  were  always  here." 

"  Of  course,  it  does  make  your  position  a  little  difficult. 
Still,  we  don't  want  them  to  fret  for  her  —  we  don't  want  them 
not  to  be  fond  of  you.  Besides,  if  you  went,  what  on  earth 
would  they  do  without  you  ?  " 

"  They  must  learn  to  do  without  me.  They  would  have  some 
one  else." 

"  Yes,  and  they  '11  be  fond  of  her." 

"  Not  in  the  same  way.  I  think  perhaps  I  've  given  myself 
too  much  to  them.  There 's  something  unusual,  something  tragic 
in  the  way  they  cling  to  me.  I  know  it 's  bad  for  them.  I 
try  to  check  it,  and  I  can't.  And  I  've  no  right  to  let  it  go  on. 
Nobody  has  a  right  except  their  mother." 

"  Well,  it 's  awfully  nice  of  you  to  feel  like  that  about  it.  But 
as  you  say,  I  don't  see  how  it 's  to  be  helped.     I  think  you  're 


466  THE     CKEA  TORS 

taking  an  exaggerated  view  —  conscientiously  exaggerated. 
They  're  too  young,  you  Ivnow,  to  be  very  tragic." 

She  smiled  as  through  tears. 

"  I  don't  think  you  'U  save  tragedy  by  going.  Besides,  what 
should  I  do?" 

"You?" 

"  Yes.     You  don't  appear  to  have  thought  of  me." 

"  Don't  I  ?  "  She  smiled  again,  as  if  at  some  secret,  none  too 
happy,  of  her  own. 

"  If  I  had  not  thought  of  you  I  should  never  have  come  here 
a  second  time.  If  I  had  not  thought  of  you  I  should  not  have 
thought  of  going." 

"  Did  you  thinly  I  wanted  you  to  go  ?  " 

"I  —  was  not  quite  sure." 

He  laughed.     "  Are  you  sure  now  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  again. 

"  I  do  help  you  by  staying  ?  " 

He  was  overwhelmed  by  his  indebtedness. 

"  Most  certainly  you  do.  I  must  have  been  very  ungracious 
if  you  have  n't  realized  how  indispensable  you  are." 

"  If  you  're  sure  of  that  —  I  '11  stay." 

"  Good." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  detained  hers  for  a  moment.  "  Are 
you  sure  you  don't  want  to  leave  us  ?  I  'm  not  asking  too  much 
of  you  ?  " 

She  withdrew  her  hand. 

"You  have  never  asked  too  much." 

Thus  Gertrude  uncovered  the  knees  of  the  gods.    ' 


LXII 

FOUE  days  in  every  week  Jane  had  a  letter  from  Gertrude 
and  once  a  week  a  letter  from  Brodrick.  She  was  thus 
continually  assured  that  all  was  well  and  that  Brodrick  was 
very  comfortable  with  Gertrude. 

She  was  justified  in  staying  on,  since  her  genius  had  come 
back  to  her,  divinely  placable,  divinely  propitiated  and  ap- 
peased. 

She  knew  that  in  a  measure  she  owed  this  supreme  recon- 
ciliation to  George  Tanqueray.  Her  genius  was  virile.  He 
could  not  give  it  anything,  nor  could  it  have  taken  anything  he 
gave.  He  was  passive  to  her  vision  and  humble,  on  his  knees, 
as  he  always  had  been,  before  a  kindred  immortality.  Wliat 
he  did  for  her  was  to  see  her  idea  as  she  saw  it, but  so  that  through 
his  eyes  she  saw  steadily  and  continuously  its  power  and  per- 
fection. She  was  aware  that  in  the  last  five  years  she  had 
grown  dependent  on  him  for  that.  For  five  years  he  had  lifted 
her  out  of  the  abyss  when  she  had  found  herself  falling. 
Through  all  the  surgings  and  tossings  that  had  beset  her  he  had 
kept  her  from  sinking  into  the  trough  of  the  wave.  Never  once 
had  he  let  go  his  hold  till  he  had  seen  her  riding  gaily  on  the 
luminous  crest. 

His  presence  filled  her  with  a  deep  and  strong  excitement. 
For  two  years,  in  their  long  separations,  she  had  found  that  her 
craving  for  it  was  at  times  unbearable.  She  knew  that  when 
her  flame  died  down  and  she  was  in  terror  of  extinction,  she 
had  only  to  send  for  him  to  have  her  fear  taken  from  her.  She 
had  only  to  pick  up  a  book  of  his,  to  read  a  sentence  of  his,  and 
she  would  feel  herself  afire  again.  Everything  about  him,  his 
voice,  his  look,  the  touch  of  his  hand,  had  this  penetrating,  life- 
giving  quality. 

467 


468  THE     CREATORS 

Three  weeks  passed  and  Tanqueray  was  still  staying  in  his 
inn  at  Chagford.  In  the  mornings  they  worked,  he  on  his 
book  and  she  on  hers.  She  saw  him  every  afternoon  or  evening. 
Sometimes  they  took  long  walks  together  over  the  moors.  Some- 
times they  wandered  in  the  deep  lanes.  Sometimes,  in  rainy 
weather,  they  sat  indoors,  talking.  In  the  last  five  years 
Tanqueray  (who  never  used  to  show  his  work)  had  brought  all 
his  manuscripts  for  her  to  read.  He  brought  them  now.  Some- 
times she  read  to  him  what  she  had  written.  Sometimes  he 
read  to  her.  Sometimes  he  left  his  manuscript  with  her  and 
took  hers  away  with  him.  They  discussed  every  doubtful  point 
together,  they  advised  each  other  and  consulted.  Sometimes 
they  talked  of  other  things.  She  was  aware  that  the  flame  he 
kindled  leaned  to  him,  drawn  by  his  flame.  She  kept  it  high. 
She  wanted  him  to  see  how  divine  it  was,  and  how  between  him 
and  her  there  could  be  no  question  of  passion  that  was  not  incor- 
ruptible, a  fiery  intellectual  thing. 

But  every  day  Tanqueray  walked  up  from  the  village  to  the 
farm.  She  looked  on  his  coming  as  the  settled,  natural  thing. 
Brodrick  continued  to  assure  her  that  the  children  were  happy 
without  her,  and  that  he  was  very  comfortable  with  Gertrude ; 
and  Tanqueray  reiterated  that  it  was  all  right,  all  perfectly 
right. 

One  day  he  arrived  earlier  than  usual,  about  eleven  o'clock. 
He  proposed  that  they  should  walk  together  over  the  moor  to 
Post  Bridge,  lunch  at  the  inn  there  and  walk  back.  Distance 
was  nothing  to  them. 

They  set  out  down  the  lane.  There  had  been  wind  at  dawn. 
Southwards,  over  the  hills,  the  clouds  were  piled  up  to  the 
high  sun  in  a  riot  and  glory  of  light  and  storm.  The  hills  were 
dusk  under  their  shadow. 

The  two  swung  up  the  long  slopes  at  a  steady  pace,  rejoicing 
in  the  strong  movement  of  their  limbs.  It  was  thus  that  they 
used  to  set  out  together  long  ago,  on  their  "  days,"  over  the  hills 
of  Buckinghamshire  and  Hertfordshire.  Jane  remarked  that 
her  state  now  was  almost  equal  to  that  great  freedom.  And 
they  talked  of  Brodrick. 


THE     CREATORS  469 

"  There  are  n't  many  husbands/'  she  said,  "  who  would  let 
their  wives  go  off  like  this  for  months  at  a  time." 

"  Not  many.     He  has  his  merits." 

"  When  you  think  of  the  life  I  lead  him  at  home  it  takes 
heaps  off  his  merit.  The  kindest  thing  I  can  do  to  him  is  to 
go  away  and  stay  away.  George,  you  don't  know  how  I  've  tor- 
mented the  poor  darling." 

"  I  can  imagine." 

"He  was  an  angel  to  bear  it." 

She  became  pensive  at  the  recollection. 

"  Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  I  ought,  really,  to  have  mar- 
ried.   You  told  me  that  I  oughtn't." 

"When?" 

"  Six  years  ago." 

"  Well  —  I  'm  inclined  to  say  so  still.  Only,  the  unpardon- 
able sin  in  a  great  artist  —  is  n't  so  much  marrying  as  marrying 
the  wrong  person." 

"  He  is  n't  the  wrong  person  for  me.  But  I  'm  afraid  I  'm 
the  wrong  person  for  him." 

"  It  comes  to  the  same  thing." 

"  Not  altogether."  She  pondered.  "  No  doubt  God  had 
some  wise  purpose  when  he  made  Hugh  marry  me.  I  can  see 
the  wise  purpose  in  Owen's  marrying  Laura,  and  the  wise  pur- 
pose in  his  not  marrying  Nina;  but  when  it  comes  to  poor, 
innocent  Hugh  tying  himself  up  for  ever  and  ever  with  a 
woman  like  me " 

"  Don't  put  it  on  God.     His  purpose  was  wise  enough." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Why  —  obviously  —  that  I  should  have  married  you,  that 
Hugh  should  have  married  Gertrude,  and  that  some  reputable 
young  draper  should  have  married  Rose." 

"  Poor  little  Rose !  " 

"  Poor  little  Rose  would  have  been  happy  with  her  draper ; 
Gertrude  would  have  been  happy  with  Brodrick ;  you  —  no,  I, 
would  have  been  divinely  happy  with  you." 

She  laughed.    "  Oh,  would  you  !  " 

"  That  was  the  heaven-appointed  scheme.     And  there  we  were, 


470  THECEEATORS 

all  five  of  us,  bent  on  frustrating  the  divine  will  —  I  beg  Ger- 
trude's pardon  —  Gertrude's  will  was  entirely  in  accord." 

"  It  sounds  delightfully  simple,  but  I  doubt  if  it  would  have 
worked  out  so.  We've  all  got  as  much  of  each  other  as  we 
want." 

"  That 's  what  we  have  n't  got.  Very  large,  important  pieces 
of  each  of  us  have  been  taken  and  given  to  the  wrong  person. 
Look  at  you  —  look  at  me." 

She  looked  at  him.  "  My  dear,  the  largest  and  most  im- 
portant part  of  you  is  kept  well  out  of  the  reach  of  Rose's  little 
fingers.  You  and  I  have  quite  as  much  of  each  other  as  is 
good  for  us.  If  we  were  to  tear  each  other  to  pieces  there  'd  be 
nothing  left  of  us." 

Thus  lightly  they  handled  it,  setting  out  in  the  morning. 

Their  pace  slackened.     They  had  begun  to  think. 

She  had  always  been  a  little  hard  on  him  about  Rose,  Tan- 
queray  thought.  It  was  as  if  she  accused  him,  or  rather  his 
genius,  of  a  monstrous  egoism.  Surely  that  only  meant  that  it 
was  indomitably  sound  and  sane.  A  reckless  sanity  it  had,  a 
soundness  capable  of  any  risks.  There  never  was  any  man  who 
so  defied  the  forces  of  dissolution,  who  had  so  profound  an 
instinct  of  self-preservation. 

Such  a  nature  was  bound  to  be  inhospitable  to  parasites.  By 
the  very  ease  with  which  it  assimilated  all  food  of  earth  and 
heaven,  it  starved  them  at  the  roots. 

It  was  not  that  he  deliberately  cast  off  any  tender  thing  that 
clung  to  him.  It  was  that  the  sheer  impulse  of  growth  in  him 
was  so  tremendous  that  it  burst  through  and  out-soared  the  em- 
bracing and  aspiring  bonds.  His  cruelty  (for  it  was  cruelty 
from  the  poor  parasite's  point  of  view)  was  like  Nature's,  un- 
conscious and  impersonal. 

It  was  not  his  fault,  therefore,  if  Rose's  arms,  try  as  she 
would,  could  never  hold  him.  It  was  not  that  he  was  indifferent 
to  Rose  or  to  her  suffering,  or  that  he  shrank  in  moral  cowardice 
from  dealing  with  it  as  a  man  should  deal.  It  was  that  the 
voice  of  implacably  wise,  and  indubitably  sane  instincts  warned 
him  that  he  would  accomplish  no  great  thing  if  he  turned  to 


THECREATOES  471 

contemplate  her  tragedy,  still  less  if  he  accepted  it  as  his  own. 
Incorruptible  impulses  urged  him  to  evasion.  And  it  was  thus 
that  in  the  seven  years  of  his  marriage  he  had  achieved  almost 
complete  oblivion  of  her. 

But  Jane  —  Jane  was  a  creature  of  like  impulses  and  of  the 
same  stature  as  he.  Her  dependence  on  him,  if  she  was  de- 
pendent, was  for  such  things  as  overflowed  from  him,  that  cost 
him  no  effort  to  bestow.  And  she  gave  as  superbly  as  she  re- 
ceived. There  was  nothing  in  the  least  parasitic  about  Jane. 
She  had  the  freedom  of  all  the  spaces  of  earth  and  heaven.  She 
could  tramp  the  hills  beside  him  with  the  same  breath  and 
stride. 

He  had  given  her  his  hand  for  the  last  steep  ascent.  She 
sprang  to  it  and  took  it  in  her  fine,  firm  grasp ;  but  he  felt  no 
great  pull  upon  his  arm.  She  kept  step  with  him  and  reached 
the  top  unflushed,  unpanting. 

Watching  her,  he  saw  how  marriage  had  ripened  her  slender 
body  and  given  to  it  the  beauty  that  it  had  lacked.  She  was 
more  feminine  than  ever.  She  had  added  that  invincible  quality 
to  the  sexless  charm  that  had  drawn  him  hitherto,  drawn  him 
irresistibly,  but  on  paths  remote  from  disaster. 

(He  had  forgotten  that  he  had  been  aware  that  she  was 
formidable  ever  since  he  had  first  realized  that  she  belonged 
to  another  man.) 

They  lunched  at  Post  Bridge,  at  the  little  inn  that  Tanqueray 
knew.  They  drove  (a  sudden  inspiration  seizing  them)  to  Meri- 
vale  and  back.  They  stopped  at  their  inn  again  for  tea,  and 
faced  untired  the  long  tramp  of  the  return.  It  was  evening 
when  they  reached  the  last  moor  that  lay  between  them  and  the 
farm  lane. 

The  long  uphill  road  unwound  itself  before  them,  a  dun- 
white  band  flung  across  the  darkening  down.  A  veil  of  grey 
air  was  drawn  across  the  landscape.  To  their  left  the  further 
moors  streamed  to  the  horizon,  line  after  line,  curve  after  curve, 
fluent  in  the  watery  air.  Nearer,  on  the  hillside  to  their  right, 
under  the  haze  that  drenched  its  green  to  darkness,  the  furze 
threw  out  its  unquenchable  gold. 


472  THECEEATOES 

Jane  wag  afraid  of  her  thoughts  and  Tanqueray's.  She 
talked  incessantly.  She  looked  around  her  and  made  him  see 
how  patches  of  furze  seen  under  a  haze  showed  flattened,  with 
dark  bitten  edges,  clinging  close  like  lichen  on  a  granite  wall; 
and  how,  down  the  hillsides,  in  the  beds  of  perished  streams,  the 
green  grass  ran  like  water. 

"  I  love  your  voice,"  he  said,  "  but  I  wish  you  'd  look  at  me 
when  you  're  talking." 

"  If  I  did,"  she  said,  "  I  could  n't  talk." 

The  truth  leaped  out  of  her,  and  she  drew  in  her  breath,  as 
if  thus  she  could  recall  it ;  seeing  all  that  it  meant,  and  knowing 
that  he  who  saw  everything  must  see. 

A  silence  fell  on  them.     It  lasted  till  they  topped  the  rise, 

Then  Tanqueray  spoke. 

"  Yes.  A  precious  hash  we  've  all  made  of  it.  You  and  I 
and  Brodrick  and  poor  Nina.  Could  anything  be  more  fatuous, 
more  perverse?  " 

"  Not  all  of  us.  Not  Owen.  He  did  n't  go  far  wrong  when 
he  married  Laura." 

"  Because  the  beast 's  clairvoyant.  And  love  only  made  him 
more  so ;  while  it  makes  us  poor  devils  blind  as  bats." 

"  There  's  a  dear  little  bat  just  gone  by  us.     He  's  so  happy." 

"  Ah  —  you  should  see  him  trying  to  fly  by  daylight." 

Silence  and  the  lucid  twilight  held  them  close. 

"  Jinny  —  do  you  remember  that  walk  we  had  once,  coming 
back  from  Wendover  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  him. 

"  Jinny  —  we  're  there  again  and  where  we  were  then.  We  've 
slipped  everything  between.  Positively,  I  can't  remember  now 
what  came  between." 

It  was  her  state,  also.  She  could  have  owned  it.  Only  that 
to  her  it  was  strange  and  terrible,  the  facility  with  which  they 
had  annihilated  time  and  circumstance,  all  that  had  come  be- 
tween. It  was  part  of  their  vitality,  the  way  they  let  slip  the 
things  that  hurt,  the  way  they  plunged  into  oblivion  and  emerged 
new-made. 


THECEEATOES  473 

""We  must  have  gone  wrong  somewhere,  in  the  beginning,'^ 
he  said. 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more." 

"It's  better  to  talk  about  it  than  to  bottle  it  up  inside  us. 
That  turns  it  to  poison." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  have  n't  we  always  told  the  truth  to  each  other  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  beginning.     If  we  only  had " 

"  We  did  n't  know  it  then." 

"7  knew  it,"  she  said. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  then?" 

"  You  know  what  you  'd  have  thought  of  me  if  I  had." 

"You  shouldn't  have  cared  what  I  thought.  You  should 
have  risked  it." 

"Eisked  it?" 

"  Eisked  it." 

"  But  I  risked  losing  you  altogether.     What  did  you  risk?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"Why  do  you  blame  me?     It  was  your  fault,  your  choice." 

"  Was  it  really  mine  ?     Was  it  I  who  went  wrong  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  she  said.  "  In  the  beginning.  You  knew  I  cared  for 
you." 

"  If  you  'd  let  me  see  it." 

"  Oh,  you  saw  it.  I  did  n't  tell  you  in  as  many  words.  But 
I  let  you  see  it.     That  was  where  I  went  wrong." 

"Yes,  yes."  He  assented,  for  it  was  truth's  hour.  "You 
should  have  made  me  feel  it." 

"  How  could  I  ?  " 

"  That  was  it.     You  could  n't." 

"  I  could  n't  when  I  knew  you  'd  seen  it." 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  you  took  good  care  of  that." 

"  Was  I  a  brute  ?     Was  I  a  brute  to  you.  Jinny  ?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  Not  as  men  go.  You  could  n't  help  it.  There  was  no  de- 
ceiving me." 


474  THECEEATOES 

"  Why,  after  all,  should  n't  you  have  told  me  ?  " 

"  Why  indeed  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  preposterous  convention  that  leaves  all  the  truth- 
telling  to  the  unhappy  man/' 

"  Still  —  there  it  is.     We  can't  get  over  it." 

"  You  could  have  got  over  it.     It  was  n't  made  for  you." 

"  It  was  made  for  all  women.  And  for  one  who  has  been 
wrecked  by  it  there  are  millions  who  have  been  saved.  It  was 
made  for  me  more  than  any  of  them." 

"  If  you  prefer  other  women's  conventions  to  your  own  hap- 
piness." 

"  Would  it  have  been  happiness  to  have  given  my  heart 
and  my  soul  to  somebody  who  had  no  use  for  them  and 
showed  it  ?  " 

"  You  insist  that  I  showed  it  ?  " 

"  You  showed  me  plainly  that  it  was  n't  my  heart  and  my 
soul  you  wanted." 

"  There  you  're  wrong.  There  was  a  moment  —  if  you  'd  only 
known  it." 

"  I  did  know." 

"What  did  you  know?" 

"  I  knew  there  was  some  power  I  had,  if  I  had  known  how 
to  use  it." 

"  And  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     You  see,  I  did  n't  try." 

"  You  know  how  to  use  it  now,  I  can  tell  you,  with  a  ven- 
geance." 

"  No.     It  is  n't  the  same  power,  I  think." 

"  At  any  rate  you  knew  that  it  was  touch  and  go  with  me  ? 
That  if  you  'd  chosen  you  might  have  done  anything  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  knew  that  any  other  woman  could  have  done  the  same." 

"  Then  why  not  you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  I  did  n't  want  to  hold  you  that  way.  I  had  some  de- 
cency. I  loved  my  poor  friend  too  much  to  take  him  at  a 
disadvantage." 

"Good  God!  So  that  was  your  view  of  it?  I  was  sacrificed 
to  your  invincible  ignorance." 


THECREATOES  475 

"  Oh  no,  to  my  knowledge.  Or  shall  we  say  to  an  honour- 
able scruple  ?  " 

"  Honourable  ?  " 

"  Yes.     The  whole  honour  of  women  lies  in  that." 

"  I  hope  you  see  where  the  whole  honour  of  women  has  landed 
us  at  last." 

They  had  reached  the  lane  leading  to  their  farm.  Its 
depth  held  them  closer  than  the  twilight  held.  The  trees 
guarded  them.  Every  green  branch  roofed  a  hollow  deep  with 
haze. 

"  If  you  were  a  cold  woman  I  could  understand  it." 

"I  couldn't.     It's  because  I  was  anything  but  cold." 

"  I  know.     You  were  afraid  then." 

"  Yes.     I  was  mortally  afraid." 

Above  the  lane,  on  the  slope  of  the  foot  hills,  they  could  see 
their  farm,  a  dim  grey  roof  in  a  ring  of  ash-trees.  A  dim 
green  field  opened  out  below  it,  fan-wise  with  a  wild  edge  that 
touched  the  moor.  It  seemed  to  her  with  her  altered  memory 
that  it  was  home  they  were  drawing  near. 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  you  know  women  as  God  knows  them ; 
why  didn't  you  know  me?  Can't  you  see  what  I  was  afraid 
of?  What  we're  all  afraid  of?  What  we're  eternally  trying 
to  escape  from?  The  thing  that  hunts  us  down,  that  turns 
again  and  rends  us." 

"  You  thought  you  saw  that  in  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  it  now." 

"  Not  now,"  he  whispered. 

They  had  come  to  the  porch  of  the  farmhouse.  The  door 
stood  open.  The  lamp-light  drew  them  in.  He  closed  the 
door  behind  them.     She  stood  facing  him  as  one  who  waits. 

"  Not  now,"  he  said  aloud. 

He  glanced  round.     The  house  and  all  about  it  was  still. 

"  If  we  could  always  be  here.  Jinny " 

She  turned  from  him,  afraid. 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  and  followed  her  and  took  her  in 
his  arms. 

He  pressed  back  her  head  with  one  hand.     His  face  sought 


476  THE     CEEA  TOES 

hers,  the  face  she  knew,  with  its  look  of  impetuous  flight,  of 
curves  blown  back,  the  face  that  seemed  to  lean  forward,  breast- 
ing the  wind  of  its  own  speed.  It  leaned  now,  swift  to  its  de- 
sire. It  covered  her  face.  Its  lips  were  pressed  to  her  lips, 
lips  that  drank  her  breath,  that  were  fierce  in  their  drinking, 
after  their  long  thirst.  She  pushed  it  from  her  with  her 
two  hands  and  cried  out,  "  Eose,  little  Eose ! " 

She  struggled  from  his  arms  and  ran  from  him,  stumbling  up 
the  steep  stairs.  A  door  opened  and  shut.  He  heard  her  feet 
go  slowly  on  the  floor  of  her  room  above  him.  They  reached  the 
bed.     She  seemed  to  sink  there. 


LXIII 

THAT  night  she  knew  that  she  must  leave  Dartmoor,  and  go 
somewhere  where  George  Tanqueray  could  not  follow  her 
and  find  her.  She  was  mortally  afraid  of  him.  He  had  tracked 
and  hunted  her  down  swiftly  and  more  inevitably  than  any  de- 
stroyer or  pursuer. 

In  spite  of  him,  indeed  because  of  him,  her  passion  for  this 
solitude  of  the  moors  was  strong  upon  her,  and  she  planned  to 
move  on  the  next  day  into  Somerset,  to  a  place  on  Exmoor  that 
she  knew.  She  would  leave  very  early  in  the  morning  before 
Tanqueray  could  come  to  her. 

She  lay  all  night  staring  with  hot  eyes  at  the  white  walls  that 
held  her.  At  daylight  she  dropped  asleep  and  slept  on  into  the 
morning.  When  she  woke  she  faced  her  purpose  wide-eyed  and 
unflinching.     Her  fear  was  there  also  and  she  faced  it. 

She  was  down  too  late  for  any  train  that  could  take  her  away 
before  noon,  and  Tanqueray  might  come  now  at  any  time. 

She  was  so  late  that  the  day's  letters  waited  for  her  on  the 
window-sill.  In  her  agitation  she  nearly  missed  seeing  them. 
One  was  from  Gertrude,  fulfilling  punctually  her  pledge,  assur- 
ing her  as  usual  that  all  was  well.  The  other  was  from  her 
brother-in-law,  Henry.  It  was  very  brief.  Henry,  after  ex- 
pressing the  hope  that  she  continued  to  benefit  by  the  air  of 
Dartmoor,  supposed  that  she  would  have  heard  that  Hugh  was 
suffering  from  a  chill  he  had  caught  by  motoring  without  an 
overcoat. 

She  had  not  heard  it.  She  read  Gertrude's  letter  again  to 
make  sure.  Among  all  the  things,  the  absolutely  unnecessary 
things,  that  Gertrude  had  mentioned,  she  had  not  mentioned 
that.     She  had  broken  her  pledge. 

477 


478  THECEEATOES 

They  kept  things  from  her,  then.  Heaven  only  knew  what 
they  had  kept. 

She  read  Henry's  letter  again.  There  were  no  details,  but 
her  mind  supplied  them  as  it  grasped  the  sense  of  what  he  had 
written.  There  rose  before  her  instantly  a  vision  of  Hugh  lying 
in  his  bed  ill.  He  had  a  racing  pulse,  a  flaming  temperature. 
He  was  in  for  gastritis,  at  the  least,  if  it  was  not  pneumonia. 
She  saw  with  intolerable  vividness  a  long  procession  of  terrors 
and  disasters,  from  their  cause,  the  chill,  down  to  their  remotest 
consequences.     Her  imagination  never  missed  one. 

And  instantly  there  went  from  her  the  passion  of  her  solitude, 
and  the  splendour  of  the  moors  perished  around  her  like  an 
imperfect  dream,  and  her  genius  that  had  driven  her  there  and 
held  her  let  go  its  hold.  It  was  as  if  it  owned  that  it  was  beaten. 
She  had  no  more  fear  of  it.  And  she  had  no  more  fear  of 
George  Tanqueray. 

Nothing  existed  for  her  but  the  fear  that  hung  round  Brodrick 
in  his  bed.  This  vision  of  calamity  was  unspeakable,  it  was 
worse  than  all  the  calamities  that  had  actually  been.  It  was 
worse  through  its  significance  and  premonition  than  the  illness 
of  her  little  son;  it  was  worse  than  the  loss  of  her  little  dead- 
born  daughter;  it  brought  back  to  her  with  a  more  unendurable 
pang  that  everlasting  warning  utterance  of  Nina's,  "  With 
you  —  there  '11  be  no  end  to  your  paying."  Her  heart  cried  out 
to  powers  discerned  as  implacable,  "  Anything  but  that !  Any- 
thing but  that !  " 

She  had  missed  the  first  possible  train  to  Waterloo,  but  there 
was  another  from  a  station  five  miles  distant  which  would  bring 
her  home  early  in  the  evening.  She  packed  hurriedly  and  sent 
one  of  the  farm  people  to  the  village  for  a  fly.  Then  she  paced 
the  room,  maddening  over  the  hours  that  she  had  still  to  spare. 

Once  or  twice  it  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps,  after  all,  Hugh 
was  not  so  very  ill  If  he  had  been  Henry  would  have  told  her. 
He  would  have  suggested  the  propriety  of  her  return.  And 
Henry's  brief  reference  to  Dartmoor  had  suggested  continuance 
rather  than  return. 


THECREATOES  479 

But  her  fear  remained  with  her.  It  made  her  forget  all  about 
George  Tanqueray. 

It  was  the  sudden  striking  of  ten  o'clock  that  recalled  to  her 
her  certainty  that  he  would  come.  And  he  was  there  in  the 
doorway  before  her  mind  had  time  to  adjust  itself  to  his  ap- 
pearance. 

She  fell  on  him  with  Hugh's  illness  as  if  it  were  a  weapon  and 
she  would  have  slain  him  with  it. 

He  stood  back  and  denied  the  fact  she  hurled  at  him.  As 
evidence  supporting  his  denial,  he  produced  his  recent  corre- 
spondence with  the  editor.  He  had  heard  from  him  that  morn- 
ing, and  he  was  all  right  then.  Jinny  was  being  "had,"  he 
said. 

He  had  not  come  there  to  talk  about  Brodrick,  or  to  think 
about  him.  He  was  not  going  to  let  Jinny  think  about  him 
either. 

He  had  come  early  because  he  wanted  to  find  her  with  all 
the  dreams  of  the  night  about  her,  before  her  passion  (he  was 
sure  of  it)  could  be  overtaken  by  the  mood  of  the  cool  morning. 

Jinny  had  begun  to  pack  her  manuscript  (she  had  forgotten 
it  till  now)  in  the  leather  case  it  travelled  in.  She  had  a  hat 
with  a  long  veil  on.  Tanqueray's  gaze  took  in  all  this  and  other 
more  unmistakable  signs  of  her  departure. 

"  What  do  you  think  you  're  doing  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  'm  going  back." 

"Why?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you?" 

Positively  he  had  forgotten  Brodrick. 

He  began  all  over  again  and  continued,  tenderly,  patiently, 
with  all  his  cold,  ascendant,  dispassionate  lucidity,  till  he  had 
convinced  her  that  her  fear  was  folly. 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  that. 

"  All  the  same,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  going.  I  was  n't  going  to 
stay  here  in  any  case." 

"  You  were  going  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


30 


480  THECEEATORS 

"  And  do  you  suppose  I  'm  going  to  let  you  go  ?  After  last 
night?" 

"  After  —  last  —  night  —  I  mvM  go.     And  I  must  go  back." 

"  No.  Eemember  what  you  said  to  me  last  night.  We  know 
ourselves  and  we  know  each  other  now  as  God  knows  us.  We  're 
not  afraid  of  ourselves  or  of  each  other  any  more." 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  Well  —  you  've  had  the  courage  to  get  so  far,  why  have  n't 
you  the  courage  to  go  on  ?  " 

"  You  think  I  'm  a  coward  still  ?  " 

"  A  coward."  He  paused.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  forgot 
that  you  had  the  courage  to  go  back." 

Her  face  hardened  as  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"  I  believe  after  all,"  he  said,  "  you  're  a  cold  little  devil. 
You  stand  there  staring  at  me  and  you  don't  care  a  damn." 

"  As  far  as  damns  go,  it  was  3'ou,  if  you  remember,  that  did  n't 
care." 

"  Are  you  always  going  to  bring  that  up  against  me  ?  I  sup- 
pose you  '11  remind  me  next  that  you  're  a  married  woman  and 
the  mother  of  two  children." 

"  We  do  seem  rather  to  have  forgotten  it,"  she  said. 

"  Jinny  —  that  ought  never  to  have  happened.  You  should 
have  left  that  to  the  other  women." 

"  Wliy,  George,  that 's  what  you  said  six  years  ago,  if  you 
remember." 

"  You  are " 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  am.     You  've  just  said  so." 

"  My  God.     I  don't  care  what  you  are." 

He  came  to  her  and  stood  by  her,  with  his  face  close  to  her, 
not  touching  hers,  but  very  close.  His  eyes  searched  her.  She 
stood  rigid  in  her  supernatural  self-possession. 

"  Jinny,  you  knew.     You  knew  all  the  time  I  cared." 

"  I  thought  I  knew.  I  did  know  you  cared  in  a  way.  But 
not  in  this  way.     This  —  this  is  diiferent." 

She  was  trying  to  tell  him  that  hitherto  his  passion  had  been 
to  her  such  a  fiery  intellectual  thing  that  it  had  saved  her  —  as 
by  fire. 


THECREATOES  481 

"It  isn't  different,"  he  said  gravely.  "Jinny  —  if  I  only 
wanted  you  for  myself  —  but  that  does  n't  count  as  much  as  you 
think  it  does.     If  you  did  n't  suffer " 

"  I  'm  not  suffering." 

"  You  are.  Every  nerve  's  in  torture.  Have  n't  I  seen  you  ? 
You  '11  ill  with  it  now,  with  the  bare  idea  of  going  back,  I  want 
to  take  you  out  of  all  that." 

"  No,  no.     It  is  n't  that.     I  want  to  go." 

"  You  don't.     You  don't  want  to  own  that  you  're  beaten." 

"  No.  It 's  simpler  than  that.  I  don't  care  for  you,  George, 
not  —  not  as  you  want  me  to." 

He  smiled.     "  How  do  you  think  I  want  you  to  ?  " 

"  Well  —  you  know." 

"  I  know  that  I  care  so  much  that  it  does  n't  matter  how  you 
care,  or  whether  you  care  or  not,  so  long  as  I  can  put  a  stop  to 
that  brutality." 

"  There  is  n't  any  brutality.  I  've  got  everything  a  woman 
can  want." 

"  You  've  got  everything  any  other  woman  can  want." 

She  closed  her  eyes.     "  I  'm  quite  happy." 

"  For  heaven's  sake  be  honest.  What  is  the  use  of  lying,  to 
me  of  all  people?     Don't  I  know  how  happy  you  are?" 

"  But  I  am  —  I  am,  George.  It 's  only  this  horrid,  devilish 
thing  that 's  been  tacked  on  to  me " 

"  That  beautiful,  divine  thing  that  God  made  part  of  you, 
the  thing  that  you  should  have  loved  and  made  sacrifices  to  —  if 
there  were  to  have  been  sacrifices  —  the  thing  you  've  outraged 
and  frustrated,  and  done  your  best  to  destroy,  in  your  blind, 
senseless  lust  for  what  you  call  happiness.  You  've  no  right  to 
make  It  suffer." 

"  They  say  suffering 's  the  best  thing  that  can  happen  to  it." 

"  Not  Its  suffering.  Your  suffering  is  —  the  pain  that  makes 
you  alive,  that  stings  and  urges  and  keeps  you  going  —  going 
till  you  drop.  To  feel  the  pull  of  the  bit  when  you  swerve 
on  the  road  —  Its  road  —  to  have  the  lash  laid  about  your 
shoulders  when  you  jib  —  that's  good.  You  women  need 
the  lash  more  than  we  because  you  're  more  given  to  swerving 


482  THECEEATOKS 

and  jibbing.  Look  at  Nina.  She  was  lashed  into  it  if  any 
woman  ever  was." 

"  She  is  n't  the  only  one,  George." 

"  I  hope  she  is  n't.  God  is  good  to  the  great  artists  some- 
times, and  he  was  good  to  her." 

"  Do  you  suppose  Laura  thinks  so  ?  " 

"  Laura  's  not  a  great  artist." 

"  And  do  you  suppose  Owen  was  thinking  of  Nina's  genius 
when  he  married  Laura  instead  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that  Owen  was  thinking  at  all.  It 's  not  the 
thinkers  who  are  tools  in  the  hands  of  destiny,  dear  child." 

His  gaze  fell  on  the  manuscript  she  was  packing. 

"  Jinny,  you  know  —  you  've  always  known  that  you  can't  do 
anything  without  me." 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  could  n't,"  she  admitted. 

"  Well  —  be  honest  with  me." 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  "  There 's  not  much  time  for  me 
to  be  honest  in,  but  I  '11  try." 

She  sat  down.     She  meditated  a  moment,  making  it  out. 

"  You  're  right.  I  can't  do  much  without  you.  I  'm  not  per- 
fectly alive  when  you  're  not  there.  And  I  can't  get  away  from 
you  —  as  I  can  get  away  from  Hugh.  I  believe  I  remember 
every  single  thing  you  ever  said  to  me.  I  'm  always  wanting 
to  talk  to  you.  I  don't  want  —  always  —  to  talk  to  Hugh. 
But  —  I  think  more  of  him." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  only  now  that  she  really  made 
it  out.  Her  fear  had  been  no  test,  it  threw  no  light  on  her,  and 
it  had  passed.  It  was  only  now,  with  Tanqueray's  passionately 
logical  issue  facing  her,  that  she  knew  herself  aright. 

"  There  's  another  thing.  I  can't  be  sorry  for  you.  I  know 
I  'm  hurting  you,  and  I  don't  seem  to  care  a  bit.  You  can't 
make  me  sorry  for  you.     But  I  'm  sorry  for  Hugh  all  the  time." 

"■'  God  forbid  that  you  should  be  sorry  for  me,  then." 

"  God  does  forbid  it.  It 's  not  that  Hugh  maJces  me  sorry  for 
him;  he  never  lets  me  know;  but  I  do  know.  When  his  little 
linger  aches  I  know  it,  and  I  ache  all  over  —  I  think  it 's  aching 
a  bit  now ;  that 's  what  makes  me  want  to  go  back  to  him." 


THECEEATORS  485 

"  I  see  —  Pity,"  said  the  psychologist. 

"  No.  Not  pity.  It 's  simply  that  I  know  he  needs  me  more 
than  you  do.     That 's  why  I  need  him  more  than  I  need  you." 

"  Pity/'  he  reiterated,  with  a  more  insistent  stress. 

"  No." 

"  Never  mind  what  it  is,  if  it 's  something  that  you  have  n't 
got  for  me." 

"It  is  something  that  I  haven't  got  for  you.  There  isn't 
time,"  she  said,  "  to  go  into  all  that." 

As  she  spoke  he  heard  wheels  grinding  the  stones  in  the  upper 
lane,  the  shriek  of  the  brake  grinding  the  wheel,  and  the  shuf- 
fling of  men's  feet  on  the  flagged  yard  outside. 

He  shut  to  the  door  and  faced  her,  making  his  last  stand. 

"  You  know  what  you  're  going  back  to." 

"  I  know." 

"  To  sufl'er,"  he  said,  "  and  to  cause  suffering  —  to  one  — • 
two  —  three  —  innocent  people." 

"  No.     Things  will  be  different." 

"  They  won't.     We  shall  be  the  same." 

She  shook  her  head  a  little  helplessly. 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  said,  "  you  won't  be  different." 

"  If  I  could  —  if  I  only  could  be " 

"  But  you  can't.     You  know  you  can't." 

"  I  can  —  if  I  give  it  up  —  once  for  all." 

"  What  ?     Your  divine  genius  ?  " 

"  Whatever  it  is.  When  I  've  killed  that  part  of  me  I  shall 
be  all  right.     I  mean  —  they  '11  be  all  right." 

"  You  can't  kill  it.  You  can  starve  it,  drug  it,  paralyze  it, 
but  you  can't  kill  it.  It 's  stronger  than  you.  You  '11  go 
through  hell  —  I  know  it,  I  've  been  there  —  you  '11  be  like  a 
drunkard  trying  to  break  himself  of  the  drink  habit." 

"  Yes.  But  some  day  I  shall  break  myself,  or  be  broken ;  and 
there  '11  be  peace." 

"  Will  there !  " 

"  There  '11  be  something." 

She  rose.  The  wheels  sounded  nearer,  and  stopped.  The  gate 
of  the  farmyard  opened.     The  feet  of  the  men  were  at  the  door. 


LXIV 

WHATEVEE  Tanqueray  thought  of  Brodrick's  chill,  it 
and  the  fear  it  inspired  in  Gertrude  had  been  grave 
enough  to  keep  him  in  the  house.  For  three  days  (the  last  of 
September)  he  had  not  been  in  Fleet  Street,  in  his  office. 

There  was  agitation  there,  and  agitation  in  the  mind  of  the 
editor  and  of  his  secretary.  Tanqueray's  serial  was  running  its 
devastating  course  through  the  magazine,  and  the  last  instal- 
ment of  the  manuscript  was  overdue  (Tanqueray  was  always  a 
little  late  with  his  instalments).  Brodrick  was  worried,  and 
Gertrude,  at  work  with  him  in  his  study,  tried  to  soothe  him. 
They  telephoned  to  the  office  for  the  manuscript.  The  manu- 
script was  not  there.  The  clerk  suggested  that  it  was  probably 
still  with  the  type-writer.  Miss  Eanger.  They  telephoned  to 
Miss  Eanger,  who  replied  that  the  manuscript  had  been  typed 
and  sent  to  the  author  three  weeks  ago  for  revision. 

Brodrick  sent  a  messenger  to  Tanqueray's  house  for  the 
manuscript.  He  returned  towards  evening  with  a  message  that 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  was  out,  Mr.  Tanqueray  was  in  the  country  and 
the  servant  did  not  know  his  address. 

They  telegraphed  to  Addy  Eanger's  rooms  for  his  address. 
The  reply  came,  "  Post  Office,  Okehampton,  Devon." 

Brodrick  repeated  it  with  satisfaction  as  he  wrote  it  down: 
"  Post  Office,  Okehampton,  Devon." 

Gertrude  was  silent. 

"  He 's  got  friends  somewhere  in  Devonshire,"  Brodrick  said. 

"  At  the  Post  Office  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  Of  course  —  if  they  're  motoring." 

Gertrude  was  again  silent  (she  achieved  her  effects  mainly  by 
silences). 

"  We  'd  better  send  the  wire  there,"  said  Brodrick. 

They  sent  it  there  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

480 


THECEEATORS  487 

Before  noon  a  message  came  from  Mrs.  Tanqueray :  "  Ad- 
dress, '  The  Manor,  Wilbury,  Wilts.'  Have  sent  your  message 
there." 

Admirable  Mrs.  Tanqueray ! 

"  We  \e  sent  our  wire  to  the  wrong  address,"  said  Brodrick. 

"  It 's  the  right  one,  I  fancy,  if  Miss  Ranger  has  it." 

"  Mrs.  Tanqueray's  got  the  wrong  one,  then  ?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Gertrude's  face  was  smooth  and 
still,  but  her  eyes  searched  him,  asking  what  his  thoughts  were. 

They  sent  a  wire  to  Wilbury. 

Three  days  passed.  No  answer  to  their  wires  and  no  manu- 
script. 

"  He 's  left  Okehampton,  I  suppose,"  said  Brodrick. 

"  Or  has  he  left  Wilbury  ?  " 

"  We  '11  send  another  wire  there,  to  make  sure." 

She  wrote  out  the  form  obediently.     Then  she  spoke  again. 

"  Of  course  he 's  at  Okehampton."  Her  voice  had  an  accent 
of  joyous  certainty. 

"  Why  '  of  course '  ?  " 

"  Because  he  went  to  Wilbury  first.  Mrs.  Tanqueray  said  she 
sent  our  message  there  —  the  one  we  sent  three  days  ago.  So 
he 's  left  Wilbury  and  he  's  staying  in  Okehampton." 

"  It  looks  like  it." 

"  And  yet  —  you  'd  have  thought  he  'd  have  let  his  wife 
know  if  he  was  staying." 

"  He  probably  is  n't." 

"  He  must  be.     The  manuscript  went  there." 

"  Let 's  hope  so,  then  we  may  get  it  to-morrow." 

It  was  as  if  he  desired  to  impress  upon  her  that  the  manu- 
script was  the  important  thing. 

It  came  as  he  had  anticipated  the  next  day.  Miss  Ranger  sent 
it  up  by  special  messenger. 

"  Good !  "  said  Brodrick. 

He  undid  the  parcel  hurriedly.  The  inner  cover  was  ad- 
dressed to  Miss  Ranger  in  Tanqueray's  handwriting.  It  bore  the 
post-mark,  Chagford. 

"  He  's  been  at  Chagford  all  the  time !  "  said  Gertrude. 


488  THECREATOES 

(She  had  picked  up  the  wrapper  which  Brodrick  had  thrown 
upon  the  floor.) 

Silence. 

"  T-t-t.  It  would  have  saved  a  day,"  she  said,  "  if  he  'd  sent 
this  direct  to  you  instead  of  to  Miss  Eanger.  Why  could  n't  he 
when  he  knew  we  were  so  rushed  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  "  he  thought. 

"  There  must  have  been  more  corrections,"  he  said. 

"  She  can't  have  typed  them  in  the  time,"  said  Gertrude. 
She  was  examining  the  inner  cover.  "  Besides,  she  has  sent  it 
on  unopened." 

"  Excellent  Miss  Eanger !  " 

He  said  it  with  a  certain  levity.  But  even  as  he  said  it  his 
brain  accepted  the  inference  she  forced  on  it.  If  Tanqueray 
had  not  sent  his  manuscript  to  Camden  Town  for  corrections,  he 
had  sent  it  there  for  another  reason.  The  parcel  was  registered. 
There  was  no  letter  inside  it. 

Brodrick's  hand  trembled  as  he  turned  over  the  pages  of  the 
manuscript.     Gertrude's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  its  trembling. 

A  few  savage  ink-scratches  in  Tanqueray's  handwriting  told 
where  Miss  Eanger  had  blundered;  otherwise  the  manuscript 
was  clean.  Tanqueray  had  at  last  satisfied  his  passion  for  per- 
fection. 

All  this  Brodrick's  brain  took  in  while  his  eyes,  feverish  and 
intent,  searched  the  blank  spaces  of  the  manuscript.  He  knew 
what  he  was  looking  for.  It  would  be  there,  on  the  wide  margin 
left  for  her,  that  he  would  find  the  evidence  that  his  wife  and 
Tanqueray  were  together.  He  knew  the  signs  of  her.  Not  a 
manuscript  of  Tanqueray's,  not  one  of  his  last  great  books,  but 
bore  them,  the  queer,  delicate,  nervous  pencil-markings  that 
Tanqueray,  with  all  his  furious  erasures,  left  untouched.  Some- 
times (Brodrick  had  noticed)  he  would  enclose  them  in  a  sort 
of  holy  circle  of  red  ink,  to  show  that  they  were  not  for  incor- 
poration in  the  text.  But  it  was  not  in  him  to  destroy  a  word 
that  she  had  written. 

But  he  could  find  no  trace  of  her.  He  merely  made  out  some 
humble  queryings  of  Miss  Eanger,  automatically  erased. 


THECEEATORS  489 

The  manuscript  was  in  three  Parts.  As  he  laid  down  each, 
Gertrude  put  forth  a  quiet  hand  and  drew  it  to  herself.  He 
was  too  much  preoccupied  to  notice  how  minutely  and  with 
what  intent  and  passionate  anxiety  she  examined  it. 

He  was  arranging  the  manuscript  in  order.  Gertrude  was 
absorbed  in  Part  Three.  He  had  reached  out  for  it  when  he 
remembered  that  the  original  draft  of  Part  Two  had  contained 
a  passage  as  to  which  he  had  endeavoured  to  exercise  an  ancient 
editorial  right.  He  looked  to  see  whether  Tanqueray  had  re- 
moved it. 

He  had  not.  The  passage  stood,  naked  and  immense,  tre- 
mendous as  some  monument  of  primeval  nature,  alone  in  litera- 
ture, simple,  superb,  immortal ;  irremovable  by  any  prayer. 
Brodrick  looked  at  it  now  with  a  clearer  vision.  He  acknow- 
ledged its  grandeur  and  bowed  his  head  to  the  power  that  was 
Tanqueray.  Had  he  not  been  first  to  recognize  it?  It  was  as 
if  his  suspicion  of  the  man  urged  him  to  a  larger  justice  towards 
the  writer. 

He  turned  to  Gertrude.  "  There  are  no  alterations  to  be 
made,  thank  heaven " 

"  How  about  this  ?  " 

She  slid  the  manuscript  under  his  arm;  her  finger  pointed  to 
the  margin.     He  saw  nothing. 

"  What  ?  "     He  spoke  with  some  irritation. 

"  This." 

She  turned  up  the  lamp  so  that  the  light  fell  full  upon  the 
page.  He  bent  closer.  On  the  margin,  so  blurred  as  to  be  al- 
most indecipherable,  he  saw  his  wife's  sign,  a  square  of  delicate 
script.  To  a  careless  reader  it  might  have  seemed  to  have 
been  written  with  a  light  pencil  and  to  have  been  meant  to 
stand.  Examined  closely  it  revealed  the  firm  strokes  of  a  heavy 
lead  obliterated  with  india-rubber.  Gertrude's  finger  slid  away 
and  left  him  free  to  turn  the  pages.  There  were  several  of  these 
marks  in  the  same  handwriting,  each  one  deliberately  erased. 
The  manuscript  had  been  in  his  wife's  hand  within  the  last 
three  days ;  for  three  days  certainly  Tanqueray  had  been  in  Chag- 
ford,  and  for  three  weeks  for  all  Brodrick  knew. 


490  THE     CREATORS 

There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  there,  no  reason 
why  they  should  not  be  together.  Then  why  these  pitiable  at- 
tempts at  concealment,  at  the  covering  of  the  tracks? 

And  yet,  after  all,  they  had  not  covered  them.  They  had 
only  betrayed  the  fact  that  they  had  tried.  Had  they?  And 
which  of  them  ?  Tanqueray  in  the  matter  of  obliteration  would 
at  any  rate  have  been  aware  of  the  utter  inadequacy  of  india- 
rubber.  To  dash  at  a  thing  like  india-rubber  was  more  the 
sudden,  futile  inspiration  of  a  woman  made  frantic  by  her  ter- 
ror of  detection. 

It  was  clear  that  Jane  had  not  wanted  him  to  know  that  Tan- 
queray was  at  Chagford.  She  had  not  told  him.  Why  had  she 
not  told  him?  She  knew  of  the  plight  they  were  in  at  the 
office,  of  the  hue  and  cry  after  the  unappearing  manuscript. 

So  his  brain  worked,  with  a  savage  independence.  He  seemed 
to  himself  two  men,  a  man  with  a  brain  that  worked,  following 
a  lucid  argument  to  an  obscure  conclusion,  and  a  man  who  looked 
on  and  watched  its  working  without  attaching  the  least  impor- 
tance to  it.  It  was  as  if  this  man  knew  all  the  time  what  the 
other  did  not  know.  He  had  his  own  light,  his  own  secret.  He 
had  never  thought  about  it  before  (his  secret),  still  less  had  he 
talked  about  it.  Thinking  about  it  was  a  kind  of  profanity; 
talking  would  have  been  inconceivable  sacrilege.  It  was  self- 
evident  as  the  existence  of  God  to  the  soul  that  loves  him;  a 
secret  only  in  that  it  was  profounder  than  appearances,  in  that 
it  stood  by  the  denial  of  appearances,  so  that,  if  appearances  were 
against  it,  what  of  that? 

He  was  thinking  about  it  now,  obscurely,  without  images, 
barely  with  words,  as  if  it  had  been  indeed  a  thing  occult  and 
metaphysical. 

Thinking  about  it  —  that  meant,  of  course,  that  he  had  for  a 
moment  doubted  it?  It  was  coming  back  to  him  now,  clothed 
with  the  mortal  pathos  of  its  imperfection.  She  was  dearer  to 
him  —  unspeakably  dearer,  for  his  doubt. 

The  man  with  the  brain  approached  slowly  and  unwillingly 
the  conclusion  that  now  emerged,  monstrous  and  abominable. 


THECREATOES  491 

from  the  obscurity.  If  that  be  so,  he  said,  she  is  deliberately  de- 
ceiving me. 

And  he  who  watched,  he  with  the  illuminating,  incommuni- 
cable secret,  smiled  as  he  watched,  in  scorn  and  pity.  Scorn  of 
the  slow  and  ugly  movements  of  the  intellect,  and  pity  for  a 
creature  so  mean  as  to  employ  them. 

In  the  silence  that  he  kept  he  had  not  heard  the  deep  breath- 
ing of  the  woman  at  his  side.  Now  he  was  aware  of  it  and 
her. 

He  was  positively  relieved  when  the  servant  announced  Mrs. 
Levine. 

There  was  a  look  on  Sophy's  face  that  Brodrick  knew,  a  look 
of  importance  and  of  competence,  a  look  it  always  had  when 
Sophy  was  about  to  deal  with  a  situation.  Gertrude's  silent  dis- 
appearance marked  her  sense  of  a  situation  to  be  dealt  with. 

Brodrick  rose  heavily  to  greet  his  sister.  There  was  a  certain 
consolation  in  her  presence,  since  it  had  relieved  him  of  Ger- 
trude's. Sophy,  by  way  of  prelude,  inquired  about  Brodrick  and 
the  children  and  the  house,  then  paused  to  attack  her  theme. 

"  "UTien  's  Jane  coming  back  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Brodrick. 

"  She 's  been  away  two  months." 

"  Seven  weeks,"  said  Brodrick. 

"  Is  n't  it  about  time  she  did  come  back  ?  " 

"  She 's  the  best  judge  of  that,"  said  Brodrick. 

Sophy's  face  was  extraordinarily  clear-eyed  and  candid  as  it 
turned  on  him. 

"  George  Tanqueray  's  at  Chagford." 

"How  do  you  know?"     (He  really  wondered.) 

"  Miss  Eanger  let  it  out  to  Louis  this  morning." 

"  Let  it  out?     ^^Hiy  on  earth  should  she  keep  it  in?  " 

"  Oh  well,  I  don't  suppose  she  sees  anything  in  it." 

"  Xo  more  do  I,"  said  Brodrick. 

"  You  never  saw  anything,"  said  Sophy.  "  I  don't  say 
there 's  anything  to  see  —  all  the  same " 

She  paused. 


493  THE     CEEATOES 

"Well?"     He  was  all  attention  and  politeness. 

"All  the  same  I  should  insist  on  her  coming  back/' 

He  was  silent,  as  though  he  were  considering  it. 

"  Or  better  still,  go  down  and  fetch  her." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Well,  if  you  think  it 's  wise  to  give  her  her  head  to  that  ex- 
tent —  a  woman  with  Jane's  temperament " 

"What  do  you  know  about  her  temperament?" 

Sophy  shifted  her  ground.  "  I  know,  and  you  know  the  effect 
he  has  on  her,  and  the  influence ;  and  if  you  leave  her  to  him  — 
if  you  leave  them  to  themselves,  down  there  —  for  weeks  like 
that  —  you  '11  have  nobody  but  yourself  to  thank  if " 

He  cut  her  short. 

"  I  have  nobody  but  myself  to  thank.  She  shall  please  her- 
self about  coming  back.  It  she  did  n't  come  —  I  could  n't 
blame  her." 

Sophy  was  speechless.  Of  all  the  attitudes  that  any  Brod- 
rick  could  take  she  had  not  expected  this. 

"  We  have  made  things  too  hard  for  her "  he  said. 

"  We  ?  " 

"  You  and  I  —  all  of  us.     We  've  not  seen  what  was  in  her." 

Sophy  repressed  her  opinion  that  they  very  probably  would 
see  now.  As  there  was  no  use  arguing  with  him  in  his  present 
mood  (she  could  see  that),  she  left  him. 

Brodrick  heard  her  motor  hooting  down  Eoehampton  Lane. 
She  was  going  to  dine  at  Henry's.  Presently  all  the  family 
would  be  in  possession  of  the' situation,  of  Jane's  conduct  and  his 
attitude.  And  there  was  Gertrude  Collett.  He  understood  now 
that  she  suspected. 

Gertrude  had  come  back  into  her  place. 

He  picked  up  some  papers  and  took  them  to  the  safe  which 
stood  in  another  corner  of  the  room  behind  his  writing-table. 
He  wanted  to  get  away  from  Gertrude,  to  be  alone  with  his 
secret  and  concealed,  without  betraying  his  desire  for  solitude, 
for  concealment.  He  knelt  down  by  the  safe  and  busied  him- 
self there  quite  a  long  time.     He  said  to  himself,  "  It  could  n't 


THECKEATOES  493 

happen.     She  was  always  honest  with  me.     But  if  it  did  I 
could  n't  wonder.     The  wonder  is  why  she  married  me." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  saying  to  himself  again,  "  It  could  n't 
happen." 

With  that  slight  readjusting  movement  the  two  men  in  him 
became  one,  so  that  when  the  reasoning  man  reached  slowly  his 
conclusion  he  formulated  it  thus :  "  It  could  n't  happen.  If 
it  did,  it  would  n't  happen  this  way.  He  "  (even  to  himself  he 
could  not  say  "  they  ")  "  would  have  managed  better,  or  worse." 
At  last  his  intellect,  the  lazy,  powerful  beast,  was  roused  and 
dealt  masterfully  with  the  situation. 

He  had  to  pass  the  fireplace  to  get  back  to  his  seat,  which 
Gertrude  guarded.  As  he  passed  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  face 
in  the  glass  over  the  chimneypiece,  a  face  with  inflamed  eyes  and 
a  forehead  frowning  and  overcast,  and  cheeks  flushed  with 
shame.  Gertrude,  looking  up  at  him  from  the  manuscript  she 
brooded  over,  instinctively  made  way  for  him  to  pass. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first.     Her  finger  was  on  the  pencil- 
marks  again. 
'    "  Then  that,"  said  she,  pointing,  "  that  is  not  to  stand  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is  n't."  He  answered  coldly.  "  It  was  n't 
meant  to.     It 's  rubbed  out." 

He  looked  at  her  for  the  first  time  with  dislike.  He  did  not 
suspect  her  as  the  source  of  abominable  suggestion.  He  was  only 
thinking  that  if  it  had  n't  been  for  her  he  would  n't  have  seen 
any  of  these  things. 

She  shrank  before  his  look.  "Does  he  think  I  wanted  him 
to  see  it  ?  "  she  said  to  herself. 

Already  she  was  clean  in  her  own  eyes.  Already  she  had  per- 
suaded herself  that  she  had  not  wanted  that.  And  in  the  same 
breath  of  thought  she  asked  herself,  "  What  did  he  see  ?  " 

She  smiled  as  she  answered  his  cold  answer. 

"  I  thought  it  was  rubbed  out,  but  I  could  n't  be  quite  sure." 

They  were  so  absorbed  that  they  did  not  hear  the  door  open. 

Jane  stood  in  the  doorway  quietly  regarding  them. 


LXV 

THERE  were  people  who  knew  for  a  fact  that  Jane  Holland 
(Mrs.  Hugh  Brodrick)  had  run  away  with  George  Tan- 
queray.  The  rumour  ran  through  the  literary  circles  shunned 
by  Tanqueray  and  Jane.  The  theory  of  her  guilt  was  embraced 
with  excitement  by  the  dreadful,  clever  little  people.  Not  one 
of  them  would  have  confessed  to  a  positive  desire  to  catch  her 
tripping.  But  now  that  the  thing  had  happened  it  satisfied  the 
craving  for  complete  vision  of  the  celebrated  lady.  It  reduced 
considerably  her  baffling  eminence,  and  dispersed  once  for  all  the 
impenetrable,  irritating  atmosphere  of  secrecy  she  had  kept  up. 

There  was  George  Tanqueray,  too,  who  had  kept  it  up  even 
longer  and  more  successfully.  At  last  they  had  been  caught,  the 
two  so  insolent  in  their  swift  evasion  of  pursuit.  Their  fall, 
so  to  speak,  enabled  the  hunter  to  come  up  with  them.  People* 
who  had  complained  that  they  could  never  meet  them,  who  had 
wanted  to  meet  them  solely  that  they  might  talk  about  them 
afterwards,  who  had  never  been  able  to  talk  about  them  at  all, 
had  now  abundant  material  for  conversation. 

The  rumour,  once  it  had  fairly  penetrated,  spread  over  London 
in  five  days.  It  started  in  Kensington,  ran  thence  all  the  way 
to  Chelsea,  skipped  to  Bloomsbury,  and  spread  from  these  cen- 
tres into  Belgravia  and  Mayfair.  In  three  weeks  the  tale  of 
George  Tanqueray  and  Jane  Holland  (Mrs.  Hugh  Brodrick) 
had  invaded  Hampstead  and  the  Southwestern  suburbs.  It  was 
only  confirmed  by  the  contemptuous  silence  and  curt  denials  of 
their  friends,  Arnott  Nicholson,  Caro  Bickersteth,  Nina  Lem- 
priere  and  the  Protheros. 

In  Brodrick's  family  it  sank  down  deep,  below  the  level  of 
permissible  discussion.  But  it  revealed  itself  presently  in  an  aw- 
ful external  upheaval,  utterly  unforeseen,  and  in  a  still  more 
unforeseen  subsidence. 

494 


Jane  stood  in  thr  doorway,  quietly  regardini;  tlieiu 


THE     CREATOKS  497 

There  was  first  of  all  a  split  between  Mrs.  Heron  and  the  Doc- 
tor. The  behaviour  of  Eddy  and  Winny,  especially  of  Eddy,  had 
got  on  the  Doctor's  nerves  (he  had  confessed,  in  a  moment  of 
intense  provocation,  to  having  them).  Eddy  one  evening  had 
attacked  violently  the  impermissible  topic,  defending  Jin-Jin  (in 
the  presence  of  his  younger  sister)  from  the  unspeakable  charge 
current  in  their  suburb,  taxing  his  uncle  with  a  monstrous  cre- 
dence of  the  impossible,  and  trying  to  prove  to  him  that  it  was 
impossible. 

For  the  sake  of  the  peace  so  beloved  by  Brodricks  it  was  settled 
that  Frances  and  her  children  should  live  with  poor  dear  John 
in  the  big  house  in  Augustus  Eoad. 

Brodrick  then  suggested  that  Gertrude  Collett  might  with 
advantage  keep  house  for  Henry. 

This  arrangement  covered  the  dreadful  rupture,  the  intolerable 
situation  at  Moor  Grange.  Gertrude  had  contributed  nothing  to 
the  support  of  the  rumour  beyond  an  intimation  that  the  rup- 
ture (between  her  and  the  Brodricks)  was  dreadful  and  the  situ- 
ation intolerable.  The  intimation,  as  conveyed  by  Gertrude,  was 
delicate  and  subtle  to  a  degree.  All  that  she  would  admit  in 
words  was  a  certain  lack  of  spiritual  sympathy  between  her  and 
Mrs.  Brodrick. 

It  was  felt  in  Brodrick's  family  that,  concerning  Jane  and 
Tanqueray,  Gertrude  Collett  knew  considerably  more  than  she 
cared  to  say. 

And  through  it  all  Brodrick  guarded  his  secret. 

The  rumour  had  not  yet  touched  him  whom  it  most  affected. 
It  never  would  touch  him,  so  securely  the  secret  he  guarded 
guarded  him.  And  though  it  had  reached  Hampstead  the  ru- 
mour had  not  reached  Eose. 

Eose  had  her  hands  full  for  once  with  the  Protheros,  helping 
Mrs.  Prothero  to  look  after  him.  For  Owen  was  ill,  dreadfully 
and  definitely  ill,  with  an  illness  you  could  put  a  name  to.  Dr. 
Brodrick  M'as  attending  him.  Owen  had  consulted  him  casually 
the  year  before,  and  the  Doctor  had  then  discovered  a  bell-sound 
in  his  left  lung.  Now  he  came  regularly  once  or  twice  a  week 
all  the  way  from  Putney  in  his  motor-car. 


498  THE     CEEATOES 

Eose  had  positively  envied  Laura,  who  had  a  husband  who 
could  be  ill,  "who  could  be  tucked  up  in  bed  and  taken  care  of. 
It  was  Eose  who  helped  Laura  to  make  Prothero's  big  room  look 
for  all  the  world  like  the  ward  of  a  hospital. 

Dr.  Brodrick  had  wanted  to  take  him  away  to  a  sanatorium, 
but  Prothero  had  refused  flatly  to  be  taken  anywhere.  The 
traveller  was  tired  of  travelling.  He  loved  with  passion  this 
place  where  he  had  found  peace,  where  his  wandering  genius  had 
made  its  sanctuary  and  its  home.  His  repugnance  was  so  vio- 
lent and  invincible  that  the  Doctor  had  agreed  with  Laura  that 
it  would  do  more  harm  than  good  to  insist  on  his  removal.  She 
must  do  as  best  she  could,  with  (he  suggested)  the  assistance  of  a 
trained  nurse. 

Laura  had  very  soon  let  him  know  what  she  could  do.  She 
had  winced  visibly  when  she  heard  of  the  trained  nurse.  It 
would  be  anguish  to  her  to  see  another  woman  beside  Owen's 
bed  and  her  hands  touching  him ;  but  she  said  she  supposed  she 
could  bear  even  that  if  it  would  save  him,  if  it  were  absolutely 
necessary.  Was  it  ?  The  Doctor  had  admitted  that  it  was  not  so, 
if  she  insisted  —  absolutely  —  for  the  present ;  but  it  was  advis- 
able if  she  wished  to  save  herself.  Laura  had  smiled  then,  very 
quietly. 

In  twenty-four  hours  she  showed  him  the  great  room,  bare 
and  clean  as  the  ward  of  a  hospital  (Eose  was  on  her  knees  on 
the  floor,  bees-waxing  it).  The  long  rows  of  bookcases  were 
gone,  so  were  the  pictures.  He  could  n't  put  his  finger  on  a 
single  small  unnecessary  thing.  Laura,  cool  and  clean  in  a  linen 
gown,  defied  him  to  find  a  chink  where  a  germ  could  lodge. 
Prothero  inquired  gaily,  if  they  could  n't  make  a  good  fight 
there,  where  could  they  make  it? 

Henry,  although  used  to  these  combats,  was  singularly  afi'ected 
as  he  looked  upon  the  scene,  stripped  as  it  was  for  the  last  strug- 
gle. AATiat  moved  him  most  was  the  sight  of  Laura's  little  bed, 
set  under  the  north  window,  and  separated  from  her  husband's 
by  the  long  empty  space  between,  through  which  the  winds  of 
heaven  rushed  freely.  It  showed  him  what  the  little  thing  was 
capable  of,  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  the  undying,  indom- 


THE     C  E  E  A  T  0  Pt  S  499 

itable  devotion.  That  was  the  stuff  a  man  wanted  in  his  wife. 
He  thought  of  his  brother  Hugh.  \Miy  on  earth,  if  he  had  to 
marn'^  one  of  them,  had  n't  he  married  herf  He  was  moved  too 
and  troubled  by  the  presence  there  of  Tanqueray's  poor  little 
wife,  ^Vhatever  view  truth  compelled  you  to  take  of  Jane's  and 
Tanqueray's  relations,  Tanquerars  wife  had,  from  first  to  last, 
been  cruelly  wronged  by  both  of  them. 

Tanqueray's  wife  was  bo  absorbed  in  the  fight  they  were  mak- 
ing as  to  be  apparently  indifferent  to  her  wrongs,  and  they 
judged  that  the  legend  of  Jane  Holland  and  George  Tanqueray 
had  not  reached  her. 

It  had  not.  And  yet  she  knew  it,  she  had  known  it  all  the 
time  —  that  they  had  been  together.  She  had  known  it  ever 
since,  in  the  innocent  days  before  the  rumour,  she  had  heard  Dr. 
Brodrick  telling  Mrs.  Prothero  that  his  sister-in-law  had  gone 
down  to  Chagford  for  three  months.  Chagford  was  where  he 
was  always  staying.  And  in  the  days  of  innocence  Addy  Eanger 
had  let  out  that  it  was  Chagford  where  he  was  now.  She  had 
given  Eose  his  address.  Post  Office,  Chagford.  He  had  been 
there  all  the  time  when  Eose  had  supposed  him  to  be  in  "Wilt- 
shire and  was  sending  all  his  letters  there. 

She  did  not  hear  of  Mrs.  Brodrick's  return  until  a  week  or  two 
after  that  event:  for,  in  the  days  no  longer  of  innocence,  his 
sister-in-law  was  a  sore  subject  with  the  Doctor.  And  when 
Eose  did  hear  it  finally  from  Laura,  by  that  time  she  had  heard 
that  Tanqueray  was  coming  back  too.  He  had  written  to  her 
to  say  so. 

That  was  on  a  Saturday.  He  was  not  coming  nntil  Tuesday. 
Eose  had  two  davs  in  which  to  consider  what  line  she  meant  to 
take. 

That  she  meant  to  take  a  line  was  already  clear  to  Eose.  Per- 
fectly clear,  although  her  decision  was  arrived  at  through  nights 
of  misery  so  profound  that  it  made  most  things  obscure.  It  was 
clear  that  they  could  not  go  on  as  they  had  been  doing.  He 
might  (nothing  seemed  to  matter  to  him),  but  she  could  n't :  and 
she  would  n't,  not  (so  she  put  it)  if  it  was  ever  so.  They  had 
been  miserable. 
31 


500  THEGEEATORS 

Not  that  it  mattered  so  very  much  whether  she  was  miserable 
or  no.  But  that  was  it ;  she  had  ended  by  making  him  miserable 
too.  It  took  some  making ;  for  he  was  n't  one  to  feel  things 
much ;  he  had  always  gone  his  own  way  as  if  nothing  mattered. 
By  his  beginning  to  feel  things  (as  she  called  it)  now,  she  meas- 
ured the  effect  she  must  have  had  on  him. 

It  was  all  because  she  was  n't  educated  proper,  because  she 
was  n't  a  lady.  He  ought  to  have  married  a  lady.  He  ought 
(she  could  see  it  now)  to  have  married  some  one  like  Mrs. 
Brodrick,  who  could  understand  his  talk,  and  enter  into  what 
he  did. 

There  was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prothero  now.  They  were  happy. 
There  was  n't  a  thing  he  could  say  or  do  or  think  but  what  she 
understood  it.  Why,  she  'd  understand,  time  and  again,  without 
his  saying  anything.  That  came  of  being  educated.  It  came 
(poor  Eose  was  driven  back  to  it  at  every  turn)  of  being  a  lady. 

She  might  have  known  how  it  would  be.  And  in  a  way  she 
had  known  it  from  the  first.  That  was  why  she  'd  been  against 
it,  and  why  Uncle  and  Aunt  and  her  master  and  mistress  down 
at  Fleet  had  been  against  it  too.  But  there  —  she  loved  him. 
Lady  or  no  lady,  she  loved  him. 

As  for  his  going  away  with  Mrs.  Brodrick,  she  "  looked  at  it 
sensible."  She  understood.  She  saw  the  excuses  that  could  be 
made  for  him.  She  could  n't  understand  licr;  she  could  n't  find 
one  excuse  for  her  behaviour,  a  married  woman,  leaving  her  hus- 
band —  such  a  good  man,  and  her  children  —  her  little  helpless 
children,  and  going  off  for  weeks  together  with  a  married  man, 
let  him  be  who  he  might  be.  Still,  if  it  had  n't  been  her,  it 
might  have  been  somebody  else,  somebody  much  worse.  It  might 
have  been  that  Miss  Lempriere.  If  she  'd  had  a  hold  on  him, 
she  'd  not  have  let  him  go. 

For  deep-bedded  in  Eose's  obscure  misery  was  the  conviction 
that  Jane  Brodrick  had  let  him  go.  Her  theory  of  Jane's  guilt 
had  not  gone  much  farther  than  the  charge  of  deserting  her  little 
helpless  children.  It  was  as  if  Eose's  imagination  could  not 
conceive  of  guilt  beyond  that  monstrous  crime.  And  Jane  had 
gone  back  to  her  husband  and  children,  after  all. 


THECEEATORS  501 

If  it  had  been  Miss  Lempriere  she  would  have  been  bound  to 
have  stuck,  she  having  nothing,  so  to  speak,  to  go  back  to. 

The  question  was,  what  was  George  coming  back  to?  If  it 
was  to  her,  Eose,  he  must  know  pretty  well  what.  He  must 
know,  she  kept  repeating  to  herself;  he  must  know.  Her  line, 
the  sensible  line  that  she  had  been  so  long  considering,  was 
somehow  to  surprise  and  defeat  his  miserable  foreknowledge. 

By  Sunday  morning  she  had  decided  on  her  line.  Nothing 
would  turn  her.  She  did  not  intend  to  ask  anybody's  advice, 
nor  to  take  it  were  it  offered.  The  line  itself  required  the  co- 
operation and,  in  a  measure,  the  consent  of  Aunt  and  Uncle ; 
and  on  the  practical  head  they  were  consulted.  She  managed 
that  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Then  she  remembered  that  she 
would  have  to  tell  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prothero. 

It  was  on  Sunday  evening  that  she  told  them. 

She  told  them,  very  shortly  and  simply,  that  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  separate  from  Tanqueray  and  live  with  her 
uncle. 

"  Uncle  '11  be  glad  to  'ave  me,"  she  said. 

She  explained.  "  He  '11  think  more  of  me  if  he  's  not  with 
me." 

Prothero  admitted  that  it  might  be  likely. 

"  It 's  not,"  she  said,  "  as  if  I  was  afraid  of  'is  taking  up  with 
another  woman  —  serious." 

(They  wondered  had  she  heard?) 

"  I  can  trust  him  with  Mrs.  Brodrick." 

(They  thought  it  strange  that  she  should  not  consider  Mrs. 
Brodrick  serious.  They  said  nothing,  and  in  a  moment  Rose 
explained.) 

"  She  's  like  all  these  writin'  people.     /  know  'em." 

"Yes,"  said  Prothero.     "We're  a  poor  lot,  aren't  we?" 

(It  was  a  mercy  that  she  didn't  take  it  seriously.) 

"  Oh  you  —  you  're  different." 

She  had  always  had  a  very  clear  perception  of  his  freedom 
from  the  literary  taint. 

"  But  Mrs,  Brodrick  now  —  she  does  n't  care  for  'im.  She  's 
not  likely  to.     She  '11  never  care  for  anybody  but  herself." 


502  THECEEATORS 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well  —  a  woman  who  could  walk  off  like  that  and  leave  'er 
little  children  —  to  say  nothing  of  'er  husband " 

"  Is  n't  it,"  said  Prothero,  "  what  you  're  proposing  to  do  your- 
self ?  " 

"  I  'ave  n't  got  any  little  children.  She  's  leavin'  'er  'usband 
to  get  away  from'  im,  to  please  'erself .  I  'm  leavin'  mine  to 
bring  'im  to  me." 

She  paused,  pensive. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  Mrs.  Brodrick.  She  'as  n't  got  a 
'eart." 

"  No  ?  " 

"  Not  wot  I  should  call  a  'eart." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Laura. 

"  I  used  to  hate  her  when  she  came  about  the  place.  Least- 
ways I  tried  to  hate  her,  and  I  could  n't." 

She  meditated  in  their  silence. 

"  If  it 's  got  to  be  anybody  it  'd  best  be  'er.  She  's  given  'im 
all  she 's  got  to  give,  and  he  sees  'ow  much  it  is.  'E  goes  to  'er, 
I  know,  and  'e  '11  keep  on  going ;  and  she  —  she  '11  'old  'im  orf 
and  on  —  I  can  see  'er  doin'  of  it,  and  I  don't  care.  As  long  as 
she  'olds'  im  she  keeps  other  women  orf  of  'im." 

Their  silence  marvelled  at  her. 

"  Time  and  again  I  've  cried  my  eyes  out,  and  thai  's  no  good. 
I  've  got,"  said  Rose,  "  to  look  at  it  sensible.  She  's  really  keepin' 
'im  for  me." 

Down-stairs,  alone  with  Laura,  she  revealed  herself  more  fully. 

"  I  dare  say  'e  won't  ever  ask  me  to  come  back,"  she  said. 
"  But  once  I  've  gone  out  of  the  house  for  good  and  all,  'e  '11 
come  to  me  now  and  again.  He  's  bound  to.  You  see,  she  's  no 
good  to  him.  And  maybe,  if  I  was  to  'ave  a  child  —  I 
might " 

She  sighed,  but  in  her  eyes  there  kindled  a  dim  hope,  shining 
through  tears. 

"Wot  I  shall  miss  is  —  workin'  for  'im." 

Her  mouth  trembled.     Her  tears  fell. 


LXVI 

BETWEEN  seven  and  eight  o'clock  on  Tuesday  evening, 
Tanqueray,  in  an  execrable  temper,  returned  to  his  home. 

The  little  house  had  an  air  of  bright  expectancy,  not  to  say  of 
festival;  it  was  so  intensely,  so  unusually  illuminated.  Each 
window,  with  its  drawn  blind,  was  a  golden  square  in  the  ivy- 
darkened  wall. 

Tanqueray  let  himself  in  noiselessly  with  his  latch-key.  He 
took  up  the  pile  of  letters  that  waited  for  him  on  the  hat-stand 
in  the  hall,  and  turned  into  the  dining-room. 

It  smiled  at  him  brilliantly  with  all  its  lights.  So  did  the 
table,  laid  for  dinner ;  the  very  forks  and  spoons  smiled,  twink- 
ling and  limping  in  irrepressible  welcome.  A  fire  burned 
ostentatiously  in  the  hearth-place.  It  sent  out  at  him  eager, 
loquacious  tongues  of  flame,  to  draw  him  to  the  insufferable 
endearments  of  the  hearth. 

He  was  aware  now  that  what  he  was  most  afraid  of  in  this 
horrible  coming  back  was  his  wife's  insupportable  affection. 

He  turned  the  lights  down  a  little  lower.  All  his  movements 
were  noiseless.  He  was  afraid  that  Eose  would  hear  him  and 
would  come  running  down. 

He  went  up-stairs,  treading  quietly.  He  meant  to  take  his 
letters  to  his  study  and  read  them  there.  He  might  even  answer 
some  of  them.  Anything  to  stave  off  the  moment  when  he  must 
meet  Eose. 

The  door  of  her  bedroom  was  wide  open.  The  light  flared 
so  high  that  he  judged  that  Eose  was  in  there  and  about  to 
appear.  He  swung  himself  swiftly  and  dexterously  round  the 
angle  of  the  stair-rail,  and  so  reached  his  own  door. 

She  must  have  heard  him  go  in,  but  there  was  no  answering 
movement  from  her  room. 

With  a  closed  door  behind  him  he  sat  down  and  looked  over 

503 


504  THECEEATOES 

his  letters.  Bills,  proofs  from  the  "  Monthly  Eeview,"  a  letter 
from  Laura  that  saddened  him  (he  had  not  realized  that  Pro- 
thero  was  so  ill).  Last  of  all,  at  the  bottom  of  the  pile,  a  little 
note  from  Eose. 

She  had  got  it  all  into  five  lines.  Five  lines,  rather  strag- 
gling, rather  shapeless  lines  that  told  him  with  a  surprising 
brevity  that  his  wife  had  decided  on  an  informal  separation, 
for  his  good. 

No  resentment,  no  reproach,  no  passion  and  no  postscript. 

He  went  down-stairs  by  no  means  noiselessly. 

In  the  hall,  as  he  was  putting  on  his  hat,  Susan  came  to  him. 
She  gave  him  a  queer  look.  Dinner  was  ready,  she  said.  The 
mistress  had  ordered  the  dinner  that  he  liked.  (Irrepressibly, 
insistently,  thick  with  intolerable  reminiscence,  the  savour  of  it 
streamed  through  the  kitchen  door.)  The  mistress  had  cooked 
it  herself,  Susan  said.  The  mistress  had  told  Susan  that  she 
was  to  be  sure  and  make  him  very  comfortable,  and  to  remem- 
ber what  he  liked  for  dinner.  Susan's  manner  was  a  little  shy 
and  a  little  important,  it  suggested  the  inauguration  of  a  new 
rule,  a  new  order,  a  life  in  which  Eose  was  not  and  never  would 
be. 

Tanqueray  took  no  notice  whatever  of  Susan  as  he  strode  out 
of  the  house. 

The  lights  were  dim  in  the  corner  house  by  the  Heath,  oppo- 
site the  willows.  Still,  standing  on  the  upper  ground  of  the 
Heath,  he  could  see  across  the  road  through  the  window  of  his 
old  sitting-room,  and  there,  in  his  old  chair  by  the  fireside  he 
made  out  a  solitary  seated  figure  that  looked  like  Eose. 

He  came  out  from  under  the  willows  and  made  for  the  front 
door.  He  pushed  past  the  little  maid  who  opened  it  and  strode 
into  the  room.     Eose  turned. 

There  was  a  slight  stir  and  hesitation,  then  a  greeting,  very 
formal  and  polite  on  both  sides,  and  with  Joey  all  the  time 
leaping  and  panting  and  licking  Tanqueray's  hands.  Joey's 
demonstration  was  ignored  as  much  too  emotional  for  the  oc- 
casion. 

A  remark  from  Eose  about  the  weather.     Inquiries  from  Tan- 


THE     CREATORS  505 

queray  as  to  the  health  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eldred.     Further  inquir- 
ies as  to  the  health  of  Rose. 

Silence. 

"  May  I  turn  the  light  up?  "     (From  Tanqueray.) 

"I'd  rather  you  let  it  be?"     (From  Rose.) 

He  let  it  be. 

"  Rose  "  (very  suddenly  from  Tanqueray),  "  do  you  remember 
Mr.  Robinson?" 

(No  response.) 

"  Rose,  why  are  you  sitting  in  this  room  ?  " 

"  Because  I  like  it." 

"Why  do  you  like  it?" 

(No  response;  only  a  furtive  movement  of  Rose's  hand  to- 
wards her  pocket-handkerchief.  A  sudden  movement  of  Tan- 
queray's,  restrained,  so  that  he  appeared  to  have  knelt  on  the 
hearthrug  to  caress  the  little  dog.  A  long  and  silent  stroking 
of  Joey's  back.  Demonstration  of  ineffable  affection  from 
Joey.) 

"His  hair  never  has  come  on,  has  it?  Do  you  know"  (very 
gravely),  "  I  'm  afraid  it  never  will." 

(A  faint  quiver  of  Rose's  mouth  which  might  or  might  not 
have  been  a  smile.) 

"  Rose,  why  did  you  marry  me  ?  Would  n't  any  other  hairless 
little  dog  have  done  as  well  ?  " 

(A  deep  sigh  from  Rose.) 

Tanqueray  was  now  standing  up  and  looking  down  at  her  in 
his  way. 

"  Rose,  do  you  remember  how  I  came  to  you  at  Fleet,  and 
brought  you  the  moon  in  a  band-box  ?  " 

She  answered  him  with  a  sudden  and  convulsive  sob. 

He  knelt  beside  her.     He  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"  i^ose  —  I  've  brought  you  the  band-box  without  the  moon. 
Will  you  have  it  ?  " 

She  got  up  with  a  wild  movement  of  escape.  Something 
rolled  from  her  lap  and  fell  between  them.  She  made  a  dash 
towards  the  object.  But  Tanqueray  had  picked  it  up.  It  was 
a  pair  of  Tanqueray's  gloves,  neatly  folded. 


506  THECREATOES 

"  What  were  you  doing  with  those  gloves  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  was  mendin'  them,"  said  she. 

Half-an-hour  later  Eose  and  Tanqueray  were  walking  up  the 
East  Heath  Eoad  towards  their  little  house.  Eose  carried  Tan- 
queray's  gloves,  and  Tanqueray  carried  Minny,  the  cat,  in  a  bas- 
ket. 

As  they  went  they  talked  about  Owen  Prothero.  And  Tan- 
queray thanked  God  that,  after  all,  there  was  something  they 
could  talk  about. 


LXVII 

DE.  BEODRICK  had  declared  for  the  seventh  time  that 
Prothero  was  impossible. 

His  disease  was  advancing.  Both  lungs  were  attacked  now. 
There  was,  as  he  perfectly  well  knew,  consolidation  at  the  apex 
of  the  left  lung;  the  upper  lobe  had  retracted,  leaving  his  heart 
partially  uncovered,  and  he  knew  it;  you  could  detect  also  a 
distinct  systolic  murmur;  and  nobody  could  be  more  aware 
than  Prothero  of  the  gravity  of  these  signs.  Up  till  now,  he, 
Brodrick,  had  been  making  a  record  case  of  him.  The  man  had 
a  fine  constitution  (he  gave  him  credit  for  that)  ;  he  had  pluck; 
there  was  resistance,  pugnacity  in  every  nerve.  He  had  one 
chance,  a  fighting  chance.  His  life  might  be  prolonged  for 
years,  if  he  would  only  rest. 

And  there  he  was,  with  all  that  terrible  knowledge  in  him, 
sitting  up  in  bed,  driving  that  infernal  pen  of  his  as  if  his 
life  depended  on  that.  Scribbling  verses,  he  was,  working  him- 
self into  such  a  state  of  excitement  that  his  temperature  had 
risen.  He  displayed,  Brodrick  said,  an  increasing  nervous  in- 
stability. ^Yhen  Brodrick  told  him  that  (if  he  wanted  to  know) 
his  inspiration  was  hollow,  had  been  hollow  for  months,  and  that 
he  would  recognize  that  as  one  of  the  worst  symptoms  in  his 
case,  Prothero  said  that  his  critics  had  always  told  him  that. 
The  worst  symptom  in  his  case,  he  declared,  was  that  he  could  n't 
laugh  without  coughing.  When  Brodrick  said  that  it  was  n't  a 
laughing  matter,  he  laughed  till  he  spat  blood  and  frightened 
himself.  For  he  had  (Brodrick  had  noticed  it)  a  morbid  horror 
of  the  sight  of  blood.  You  had  to  inject  morphia  after  every 
haemorrhage,  to  subdue  that  awful  agitation. 

All  this  the  Doctor  recounted  to  Laura,  alone  with  her  in  her 
forlorn  little  drawing-room  down-stairs.     He  unveiled  for  her 

507 


508  T  H  E     C  K  E  A  T  0  R  S 

intelligence  the  whole  pathology  of  the  ease.  It  brought  him 
back  to  what  he  had  started  with,  Prothero's  impossibility. 

"  What  does  he  do  for  it  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  He  knows  the 
consequences  as  well  as  I  do." 

Laura  said  she  didn't  think  that  Owen  ever  had  considered 
consequences. 

"  But  he  must  consider  them.  What 's  a  set  of  verses  com- 
pared with  his  health  ?  " 

Laura  answered  quietly,  "  Owen  would  say  what  was  his  health 
compared  with  a  set  of  verses  ?  If  he  knew  they  'd  be  the  great- 
est poem  of  his  life." 

"  His  life  ?     My  dear  child " 

The  pause  was  terrible. 

"  I  wish/'  he  said,  "  we  could  get  him  out  of  this." 

"  He  does  n't  want  to  go.  You  said  yourself  it  was  n't  the 
great  thing." 

He  admitted  it.  The  great  thing,  he  reiterated,  was  rest.  It 
was  his  one  chance.  He  explained  carefully  again  how  good 
a  chance  it  was.  He  dwelt  on  the  things  Prothero  might  yet  do 
if  he  gave  himself  a  chance.  And  when  he  had  done  talking 
Laura  remarked  that  it  was  all  very  well,  but  he  was  reckoning 
without  Owen's  genius. 

"Genius?"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  smiled  (as  if 
they  weren't  always  reckoning  with  it  at  Putney!).  "  AVhat  is 
it  ?  For  medicine  it 's  simply  and  solely  an  abnormal  activity 
of  the  brain.     And  it  must  stop." 

He  stood  over  her  impressively,  marking  his  words  with 
clenched  fist  on  open  palm. 

"He  must  choose  between  his  genius  and  his  life." 

She  winced.  "  I  don't  believe  he  can  choose,"  she  murmured. 
"  It  is  his  life." 

He  straightened  himself  to  his  enormous  height,  in  dignified 
recoil  from  her  contradiction. 

"  I  have  known  many  men  of  genius,"  he  said. 

"  His  genius  is  different,"  said  she. 

He  had  n't  the  heart  to  say  what  he  had  always  said,  that  Pro- 
thero's genius  was  and  always  had  been  most  peculiarly  a  disease; 


T  H  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S  509 

but  he  did  not  shrink  from  telling  her  that  at  the  present  crisis 
it  was  death. 

For  he  was  angry  now.  He  could  not  help  being  moved  by 
professional  animus,  the  fury  of  a  man  who  has  brought  his  dif- 
ficult, dangerous  work  to  the  pitch  of  unexpected  triumph,  and 
sees  it  taken  from  his  hands  and  destroyed  for  a  perversity,  an 
incomprehensible  caprice. 

He  was  still  more  deeply  stirred  by  his  compassion,  his  affec- 
tion for  the  Protheros.  Secretly,  he  was  very  fond  of  Owen, 
though  the  poet  was  impossible ;  he  was  even  more  fond  of  little 
Laura.  He  did  not  want  to  see  her  made  a  widow  because 
Prothero  refused  to  control  his  vice.  For  the  literary  habit, 
indulged  in  to  that  extent,  amounted  to  a  vice.  The  Doctor 
had  no  patience  with  it.  A  man  was  not,  after  all,  a  slave  to  his 
unwholesome  inspiration  (it  had  dawned  on  him  by  this  time 
that  Prothero  had  made  a  joke  about  it).  Prothero  could  stop 
it  if  he  liked. 

"  I  've  told  him  plainly,"  he  said,  "  that  what  it  means  to  him 
is  death.     If  you  want  to  keep  him,  you  must  stop  it." 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  she  moaned. 

"Don't  encourage  him.  Don't  let  him  talk  about  it.  Don't 
let  his  mind  dwell  on  it.  Turn  the  conversation.  Take  his 
pens  and  paper  from  him  and  don't  let  him  see  them  again  till 
he  is  well." 

When  the  Doctor  left  her  she  went  up-stairs  to  Owen. 

He  was  still  sitting  up  writing,  dashing  down  lines  with  a 
speed  that  told  her  what  race  he  ran. 

"  Owen,"  she  said,  "  you  know.     He  told  you " 

He  waved  her  away  with  a  gesture  that  would  have  been  vio- 
lent if  it  could. 

She  tried  to  take  his  pen  and  paper  from  him,  and  he  laid  his 
thin  hands  out  over  the  sheets.  The  sweat  stood  in  big  drops 
between  tlie  veins  of  his  hands ;  it  streamed  from  his  forehead. 

"  Wait  just  a  little  longer,  till  you  're  well,"  she  pleaded. 

"  For  God's  sake,  darling,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "  leave  me, 
go  away." 

She  went.     In  her  own  room  her  work  stood  unfinished  on 


510  THECEEATORS 

the  table  where  she  had  left  it,  months  ago.  She  pushed  it  away 
in  anger.  She  hated  the  sight  of  it.  She  sat  watching  the  clock 
for  the  moments  when  she  would  have  to  go  to  him  with  his 
medicine. 

She  thought  how  right  they  had  been  after  all.  Nina  and 
Jane  and  Tanqueray,  when  they  spoke  of  the  cruelty  of  genius. 
It  had  no  mercy  and  no  pity.  It  had  taken  its  toll  from  all  of 
them.  It  was  taking  its  toll  from  Owen  now,  to  the  last  drop 
of  his  blood,  to  the  last  torturing  breath.  His  life  was  nothing 
to  it. 

She  went  to  him  silently  every  hour  to  give  him  food  or  medi- 
cine or  to  take  his  temperature.  She  recorded  on  her  chart  heat 
mounting  to  fever,  and  a  pulse  staggering  in  its  awful  haste. 
He  was  submissive  as  long  as  she  was  silent,  but  at  a  word  his 
thin  hand  waved  in  its  agonized  gesture. 

Once  he  kissed  her  hands  that  gave  him  his  drink 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  he  said,  "  it 's  so  frightened  —  always 
was.  Never  mind  —  It  '11  soon  be  over  —  only  —  don't  come 
again"  (he  had  to  whisper  it),  "if  you  don't  mind  —  till  I 
ring." 

She  sat  listening  then  for  his  bell. 

Eose  came  and  stayed  with  her  a  little  while.  She  wanted  to 
know  what  the  Doctor  had  said  to-day. 

"  He  says  he  must  choose  between  his  genius  and  his  life. 
And  it 's  I  who  have  to  choose.  If  he  goes  on  he  '11  kill  him- 
self.    If  I  stop  him  I  shall  kill  him.     What  am  I  to  do?" 

Eose  had  her  own  opinion  of  the  dilemma,  and  no  great  opin- 
ion of  the  Doctor. 

"  Do  nothin',"  she  said,  and  pondered  on  it.  "  Look  at  it 
sensible.  You  may  depend  upon  it  'e  's  found  somethin'  'e  's 
got  to  do.  'E  's  set  'is  'eart  on  finishin'  it.  Don't  you  cross 
'im.     I  don't  believe  in  crossin'  them  when  they  're  set." 

"And  if  he  dies,  Eose?     If  he  dies?" 

"  'E  dies  'is  way  —  not  yours." 

It  was  the  wisdom  of  renunciation  and  repression ;  but  Laura 
felt  that  it  was  right. 

Her  hour  struck  and  she  went  up  to  Owen.     He  was  lying 


THE     CEEA  TOES  511 

back  now  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  lips  parted.  Because  of  its 
peace  his  face  was  like  the  face  of  the  dead.  But  his  lips  were 
hot  under  hers  and  his  cheek  was  fire  to  her  touch.  She  put 
her  finger  on  his  pulse  and  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  at 
her. 

"  It 's  finished,"  he  said.     "  You  can  take  it  away  now." 

She  gathered  up  the  loose  sheets  and  laid  them  in  a  drawer 
in  his  desk.  The  poem  once  finished  he  was  indifferent  to  its 
disposal.  His  eyes  followed  her,  they  rested  on  her  without 
noting  her  movements.  They  drew  her  as  she  came  towards 
him  again. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said.     "  It  was  too  strong  for  me." 

"  Never  again,"  she  murmured.  "  Promise  me,  never  again 
till  you  're  well." 

"  Never  again."     He  smiled  as  he  answered. 

Dr.  Brodrick,  calling  late  that  night,  was  informed  by  Laura 
of  the  extent  to  which  he  had  been  disobeyed.  He  thundered  at 
her  and  threatened,  a  Brodrick  beside  himself  with  fury. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  she  said,  "  it  is  n't  awful  for  me  to  have 
to  stand  by  and  see  it,  and  do  nothing  ?     AVhat  can  I  do  ?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her.     The  little  thing  had  a  will  of  her 
own;  she  was  indeed,  for  her  size,  preposterously  over-charged 
with  will.     Never  had  he  seen  a  small  creature  so  indomitably 
determined.     He  put  it  to  her.     She  had  a  will ;  why  could  n't , 
she  use  it? 

"  His  will  is  stronger  than  mine,"  she  said.  "  And  his  genius 
is  stronger  than  his  will." 

"You  overrate  the  importance  of  it.  What  does  it  matter 
if  he  never  writes  another  line  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  charged  him  with  futility,  that  he 
echoed  —  and  in  this  hour  !  —  the  voice  of  the  world  that  tried 
to  make  futile  everything  he  did. 

"  It  does  n't  matter  to  you,"  she  said.  "  You  never  under- 
stood his  genius ;  you  never  cared  about  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  —  you  care  about  it  more 
than  you  care  about  him  ?  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  what 
you  women  are  made  of." 


512  THECEEATOES 

"  WHiat  could  I  do?  "  she  said.  "  I  had  to  use  my  own  judg- 
ment." 

"  You  had  not.     You  had  to  use  mine." 

He  paused  impressively. 

"  It 's  no  use,  my  child,  fighting  against  the  facts." 

To  Henry  Laura  was  a  little  angry  child,  crying  over  the  bitter 
dose  of  life.     He  had  got  to  make  her  take  it. 

He  towered  over  her,  a  Brodrick,  the  incarnate  spirit  of  fact. 

It  was  a  spirit  that  revolted  her.  She  stood  her  ground  and 
defied  it  in  its  insufferable  tyranny.  She  thought  of  how  these 
men,  these  Brodricks,  behaved  to  genius  wherever  they  met 
it;  how,  among  them,  they  had  driven  poor  Jinny  all  but  mad, 
martyrizing  her  in  the  name  of  fact.  As  for  Owen,  she  knew 
what  they  had  thought  and  said  of  him,  how  they  judged  him 
by  the  facts.  If  it  came  to  that  she  could  fight  the  Doctor 
with  his  own  weapons.  If  he  wanted  facts  he  should  have 
them;  he  should  have  all  the  facts. 

"  This  is  n't  what 's  killing  him,"  she  said.  "  It 's  all  the 
other  things,  the  things  he  was  made  to  do.  Going  out  to  Man- 
churia —  that  began  it.  He  ought  never  to  have  been  sent 
there.  Then  —  five  years  on  that  abominable  paper.  Think 
how  he  slaved  on  it.  You  don't  know  what  it  was  to  him.  To 
have  to  sit  in  stuffy  theatres  and  offices ;  to  turn  out  at  night  in 
vile  weather ;  to  have  to  work  whether  he  was  fit  to  work  or  not." 

He  looked  down  at  her  very  quietly  and  kindly.  It  was  when 
people  were  really  outrageous  that  a  Brodrick  came  out  in  his 
inexhaustible  patience  and  forbearance. 

"  You  say  he  had  to  do  all  these  things.     Is  that  the  fact  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Laura,  passionately,  "  it 's  the  truth." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  I  mean  it 's  what  it  amounted  to.  They  —  they  drove  him 
to  it  with  their  everlasting  criticism  and  fault-finding  and  com- 
plaining." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  he  was  a  man  to  be  much  affected 
by  adverse  criticism." 

"  You  don't  know,"  she  retorted,  "  how  he  was  affected.     You 


THE     CREATORS  513 

can't  judge.  Anyhow,  he  stuck  to  it  up  to  the  very  last  —  the 
very  last,"  she  cried. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Prothero,  nobody  wanted  him  to " 

"  He  did  it,  though.  He  did  it  because  he  was  not  what  you 
all  thought  him." 

"We  thought  him  splendid.  My  brother  was  saying  only 
the  other  day  he  had  never  seen  such  pluck." 

"Well,  then,  it's  his  pluck  —  his  splendour  that  he's  dy- 
ing of." 

"  And  you  hold  us,  his  friends,  responsible  for  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  hold  you  responsible  for  anything." 

She  was  trembling  on  the  edge  of  tears. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said  gently,  "  you  misunderstand.  You  've 
been  doing  too  much.     You  're  overstrained." 

She  smiled.  That  was  so  like  them.  They  were  sane  when 
they  got  hold  of  one  stupid  fact  and  flung  it  at  your  head.  But 
you  were  overstrained  when  you  retaliated.  AVlien  you  had  made 
a  sober  selection  from  the  facts,  such  a  selection  as  constituted 
a  truth,  and  presented  it  to  them,  you  were  more  overstrained 
than  ever.     They  could  n't  stand  the  truth. 

"  I  don't  hold  you  responsible  for  his  perversity,"  said  the 
poor  Doctor. 

"  You  talked  as  if  you  did." 

"  You  misunderstood  me,"  he  said  sadly.  "  I  only  asked  you 
to  do  what  you  could." 

"  I  have  done  what  I  could." 

He  ordered  her  some  bromide  then,  for  her  nerves. 

That  evening  Prothero  was  so  much  better  that  he  declared 
himself  well.  The  wind  had  changed  to  the  south.  She  had 
prayed  for  a  warm  wind ;  and,  as  it  swept  through  the  great  room, 
she  flung  off  her  fur-lined  coat  and  tried  to  persuade  herself  that 
the  weather  was  in  Owen's  favour. 

At  midnight  the  warm  wind  swelled  to  a  gale.  Down  at  the 
end  of  the  garden  the  iron  gate  cried  under  the  menace  and  tor- 
ture of  its  grip.  The  sound  and  the  rush  of  it  filled  Prothero 
with  exultation.     Neither  he  nor  Laura  slept. 


514  THECREATOES 

She  had  moved  her  bed  close  up  against  his,  and  they  lay  side 
by  side.  The  room  was  a  passage  for  the  wind ;  it  whirled  down 
it  like  a  mad  thing,  precipitating  itself  towards  the  mouth  of 
the  night,  where  the  wide  north  window  sucked  it.  On  the  floor 
and  the  long  walls  the  very  darkness  moved.  The  pale  yellow 
disc  that  the  guarded  nightlight  threw  upon  the  ceiling  swayed 
incessantly  at  the  driving  of  the  wind.  The  twilight  of  the 
white  beds  trembled. 

Outside  the  gust  staggered  and  drew  back;  it  plunged  for- 
ward again,  with  its  charge  of  impetus,  and  hurled  itself  against 
the  gate.  There  was  a  shriek  of  torn  iron,  a  crash,  and  the  long 
sweeping,  rending  cry  of  live  branches  wrenched  from  their  hold, 
lacerated  and  crushed,  trailing  and  clinging  in  their  fall. 

Owen  dragged  himself  up  on  his  pillows.  Laura's  arm  was 
round  him. 

"  It 's  nothing,"  she  said,  "  only  the  gate.  It  was  bound 
to  go." 

"The  gate?" 

It  seemed  to  her  touch  that  he  drew  himself  together. 

"  I  said  I  'd  come  back  —  through  it "  he  whispered.     "  I 

shall  —  come  back  " —  his  voice  gathered  a  sudden,  terrible, 
hoarse  vibration  —  "  over  it  —  treading  it  down." 

At  that  he  coughed  and  turned  from  her,  hiding  his  face. 
The  handkerchief  she  took  from  him  was  soaked  in  blood.  He 
shuddered  and  shrank  back,  overcome  by  the  inveterate,  ungov- 
ernable horror. 

He  lay  very  still,  with  closed  eyes,  afraid  lest  a  movement  or 
a  word  should  bring  back  the  thing  he  loathed.  Laura  sat  up 
and  watched  him. 

Towards  morning  the  wind  dropped  a  little  and  there  was 
some  rain.  The  air  was  warm  with  the  wet  south,  and  the  gar- 
den sent  up  a  smell,  vivid  and  sweet,  the  smell  of  a  young  spring 
day.  Once  the  wind  was  so  quiet  that  she  heard  the  clock  strike 
in  the  hall  of  the  hospital.     She  counted  seven  strokes. 

It  grew  warmer  and  warmer  out  there.     Owen  was  very  cold. 

Laura  ran  down-stairs  to  telephone  to  the  Doctor.  She  was 
gone  about  five  minutes. 


THE     CREATORS  515 

And  Prothero  lay  in  his  bed  under  the  window  with  a  pool 
of  blood  in  the  hollow  of  the  sheet  where  it  had  jetted,  and  the 
warm  wind  blowing  over  his  dead  body. 


LXVIII 

LAURA  PROTHERO  was  sitting  with  Jane  in  the  garden  at 
Wendover  one  day  in  that  spring.  It  was  a  day  of  sudden 
warmth  and  stillness  that  brought  back  vividly  to  both  of  them 
the  hour  of  Owen's  death. 

They  were  touched  by  the  beauty  and  the  peace  of  this  place 
where  Nicky  lived  his  perfect  little  life.  They  had  just  agreed 
that  it  was  Nicky's  life,  Nicky's  character,  that  had  given  to 
his  garden  its  lucent,  exquisite  tranquillity.  You  associated  that 
quality  so  indivisibly  with  Nicky  that  it  was  as  if  he  flowered 
there,  he  came  up  every  spring,  flaming  purely,  in  the  crocuses 
on  the  lawn.  Every  spring  Nicky  and  a  book  of  poems  ap- 
peared with  the  crocuses;  the  poems  as  Nicky  made  them,  but 
Nicky  heaven-born,  in  an  immortal  innocence  and  charm. 

It  was  incredible,  they  said,  how  heaven  sheltered  and  pro- 
tected Nicky. 

He,  with  his  infallible  instinct  for  the  perfect  thing,  had  left 
them  together,  alone  in  the  little  green  chamber  on  the  lawn, 
shut  in  by  its  walls  of  yew.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  this 
heavenly  peace  to  give  them  for  a  moment. 

He  passed  before  them  now  and  then,  pacing  the  green  paths 
of  the  lawn  with  Nina. 

"  No,  Jinny,  I  am  not  going  on  any  more,"  Laura  said,  re- 
turning to  the  subject  of  that  intimate  communion  to  which 
they  had  been  left.  "You  see,  it  ended  as  a  sort  of  joke,  his 
and  mine  —  nobody  else  saw  the  point  of  it.  Why  should  I 
keep  it  up  ?  " 

"  Would  n't  he  have  liked  you  to  keep  it  up  ?  " 

"  He  would  have  liked  me  to  please  myself  —  to  be  happy. 
How  can  I  be  happy  going  on  —  giving  myself  to  the  people 
who  rejected  liini  ?     I  'm  not  going  to  keep  that  up." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

516 


T  11  E     C  E  E  A  T  0  R  S  SI? 

Laura  said  that  she  would  have  enough  to  do,  editing  his 
poems  and  his  memoirs.  Jane  had  not  realized  the  memoirs. 
They  were,  Laura  told  her,  mainly  a  record  of  his  life  as  a 
physician  and  a  surgeon,  a  record  so  simple  that  it  only  un- 
consciously revealed  the  man  he  was.  George  Tanqueray  had 
insisted  on  her  publishing  this  first. 

"  I  hated  doing  it  for  some  things,"  she  said.  "  It  looks  too 
like  a  concession  to  this  detestable  British  public.  But  I  can't 
rest.  Jinny,  till  we  've  made  him  known.  They  '11  see  that  he 
did  n't  shirk,  that  he  could  beat  the  practical  men  —  the  men 
they  worship  —  at  their  own  game,  that  he  did  something  for  the 
Empire.  Then  they  '11  accept  the  rest.  There's  an  awful  irony 
in  it,  but  I  'm  convinced  that 's  the  way  his  immortality  will 
come." 

"  It  '11  come  anyway,"  said  Jane. 

"  It  '11  come  soonest  this  way.  They  '11  believe  in  him  to- 
morrow, because  of  the  things  he  did  with  his  hands.  His 
hands  were  wonderful.  Ah,  Jinny,  how  could  I  ever  want  to 
write  again  ?  " 

"  What  will  you  do,  dear  child  ?     How  will  you  live  ?  " 

"  I  '11  live  as  he  did."  She  said  it  fiercely.  "  I  '11  live  by 
journalism.     It  does  n't  matter  how  I  live." 

"  There  are  so  many  things,"  she  said,  "  that  don't  matter, 
after  all." 

Nicky  and  Nina  passed. 

"  Do  vou  think,"  said  he,  "  she  's  happy  ?  " 

"\Mio?     Jane?     Or  Laura?" 

"  You  can't  think  of  Laura,"  said  Nicky,  gravely,  "  without 
Mm." 

"  That 's  it.  She  is  n't  without  him.  She  never  will  be.  Pie 
has  given  her  his  certainty." 

"Of  immortality?"     Nicky's  tone  was  tentative. 

"  Of  the  thing  he  saw.  That  is  immortality.  Of  course  she  's 
happy." 

"  But  I  was  thinking,"  Nicky  said,  "  of  Jane." 

THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  RFGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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